


Have Courage & Be Kind

by gallantrejoinder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But a lot of sadness first, F/F, Fluff, Get ready folks: Fluff incoming, If you know Cinderella you know why, girls supporting girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: A Cinderella AU starring Sansa Stark as the eponymous cinder-wench, Cersei Lannister as the evil almost-mother-in-law, and Brienne of Tarth as Prince(ss) Charming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finished NaNoWriMo but the writing bug truly bit me good, and so I started work immediately on this.

The news that Sansa Stark is to be married at the young age of sixteen to Joffrey Baratheon, son of the famously beautiful Cersei Lannister and the respected warrior Lord Robert Baratheon, spreads quickly. And no one is more aware or more proud than Sansa herself.

After all, how many of her friends can claim to be married at her age? Margaery always bemoans that she will not be married for many years, or ever, if her grandmother does not try to be friendly with the local lords and their children. Apparently Olenna is on the hunt for higher status nobles, but Margaery finds it all ridiculous, and Sansa agrees. What’s the point in waiting?

The youngest marriage in the country in living memory was of the fifteen-year-old Lyanna, Sansa’s aunt, to the foreign prince Rhaegar after the death of his first wife, Elia. Of course, Lyanna died in childbirth within the year, the baby with her. And this was before the war with Rhaegar’s country, the war which has called up each of Sansa’s older siblings, Jon and Robb, to battle in faraway lands ...

But still, Lyanna had managed to snag a real prince, and while Sansa has not been quite so lucky, marriage to Joffrey Baratheon is nothing to sneeze at. He is eighteen, handsome, and distantly related through his father to the royal family. He is perfect in every way.

And that is why Sansa moves, with her younger siblings and her parents, into Joffrey’s father’s manor for two months before their wedding. After all, there is an incredible number of things to prepare – Sansa’s dress, the settings, the food, the exchange of dowry and inheritance. Margaery is painfully jealous that she cannot come with Sansa, but Sansa could not care less.

“I cannot believe you are abandoning me,” Margaery sighs, bemoaning her fate while lying prostrate on Sansa’s bed.

“I supposed you’ll just have to practise flirting with some local peasant boys then,” Sansa giggles, while Margaery looks horrified.

“Oh gods, no. Never,” she says firmly, shaking her head.

“What, you are not charmed by young Hodor?” Sansa teases, and Margaery throws a pillow at her in response.

“Do not even joke about that,” Margaery warns. “Hodor is a good man, he does not deserve your cruelties, Sansa Stark.”

Perhaps it is a little cruel of her. But Sansa finds it hard to care when she is this filled with excitement, with thoughts of her future as the wife of Joffrey Baratheon.

“I bet Arya is secretly envious,” she muses aloud.

Margaery raises an eyebrow. “What, of Hodor?”

“No! Of _me_ , and Joffrey,” Sansa rolls her eyes. “She always complains about dresses and sewing and all the rest of it, but I bet she’s just envious of it all. She will never find a husband, that’s what Sister Mordane says.”

“Now you are definitely being cruel, Sansa,” Margaery says with a frown. Sansa stutters in her movements, unsure. But then Margaery grins. “Arya cannot help it if she has more in common with her horse than her family!”

They collapse into peals of laughter that bring Sister Mordane scolding into the room, but nothing can dull Sansa’s happiness. Her every dream is coming true, and no uppity nun can take it away by waggling a finger at her.

She is going to be married to the most perfect boy imaginable.

 

~

 

The Baratheon manor is situation quite near to the capital city, with the forest at its back and the road into the city passing by just outside. The city, a quarter of a day’s ride away, is the centre of culture and most certainly of fashion, which Sansa is very determined to follow – and perhaps one day lead. Sansa has little interest in the forest, of course, there being miles and miles of it to the north at home, but she thinks perhaps it will help if she ever gets homesick. The pines and other winter-hardy trees from home are sparser here amongst the native trees, but still present, smelling just like home.

Lord Baratheon greets her father with a full bellied laugh as soon as they alight from their procession of carriages, and Lady Cersei kisses her mother on the cheek, but Sansa has eyes only for Joffrey. He is just as handsome as she remembers from his last visit to Winterfell. A little thrill goes through her when he smiles at her – and rather daringly, takes her hand and kisses it in full view of everyone. Sansa blushes, ignoring the quiet retching sound Arya is making behind her. She is above that now, of course. She is a fiancé, soon to be a wife. So she definitely does not elbow Arya on their way into the manor.

The manor itself is breathtakingly beautiful. It is decorated richly, with gold furnishings and great tapestries hung upon the walls. The colours are all light – ranging from rich creams to snow-white, but nothing like the dark wood and grey stone of Winterfell. Sansa adores it immediately. Wandering in, she does her best not to look around with wide eyes, drinking it all in like a simpleton – but it is difficult, with her mother complimenting Lady Cersei ahead of her, and Joffrey’s reassuring arm to clutch onto, and the newness of it all overwhelming her almost instantly.

“Are you well, my lady?” Joffrey’s voice interrupts her thoughts, and she takes a moment to compose herself before answering, to be sure she will not stutter.

“Your father’s home is very beautiful, my lord,” she replies, smiling as prettily as she knows how.

Joffrey’s face twitches before he answers. “Well, it will be _my_ home when he dies, of course. And yours too, my lady, when we are married,” he adds.

Sansa is a little taken aback at the comment about his father – well, such things are not spoken about in polite company. But he is correct, of course. _Perhaps he is just a very honest person_ , Sansa thinks, and she sees no flaw in that.

“Of course,” she replies, bowing her head.

They are each shown to their rooms: a grand suite for her parents, with a smaller room next door for Bran and Rickon so that Ned and Catelyn may keep an eye on them. Sansa is slightly disappointed to note that her room is not only to be shared with Arya but is in the east wing of the house, while the Baratheon family stays in the west. She had hoped … well, not for anything scandalous, but if her room had just been a little closer to Joffrey’s, perhaps they could have had some time alone … _But there will be plenty of time for that when you are married_ , she thinks firmly to herself, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sister Mordane.

That night, after hours of unpacking and settling in – and attempting not to commit sororicide before her wedding day – Sansa descends with her family for a welcoming feast in the great hall. The Baratheons are able to afford many servants, far more than the Starks may, and so they are served an enormous meal of several courses with quick efficiency. Lord Baratheon, Sansa notes, eats up every course with gusto, while Lady Cersei delicately picks at each one until it is taken away. But they are equals in their consumption of the wine which never runs dry at the table.

“Tell me, Ned,” Lord Baratheon says in a booming voice, his face red with the wine. “How often do you put on a spread like this at Winterfell?”

Her father, across the table and up near the head, next to Lord Baratheon, smiles a little tightly. “Well, for special occasions,” he answers diplomatically. Sansa knows that better than anyone. Winterfell is interminably boring without a feast or a grand ball to provide entertainment, but they never seem to happen often.

“We could do this every night if the wife would let me!” Lord Baratheon roars with laughter. “But Cersei’s not a fan of a spread like this. Not a fan of spreading at all, if you get my drift,” he says with a wink.

Sansa’s eyes widen, and she stares into her singular cup of wine, suddenly grateful that her mother had not allowed any more that night. She would never want to behave so crassly in front of a guest. But then, Lord Baratheon is father’s best friend, has been for years … perhaps such talk is normal. Sister Mordane says that men often speak this way amongst themselves …

An awkward silence has fallen as Lord Baratheon continues to wheeze laughter into his glass. Sansa darts a glance around the table, but everyone is looking away or at their dinners, just as she has been. Except for Lady Cersei. Her future mother-in-law is clutching her glass with white knuckles, staring daggers at her husband. Sansa feels a flicker of uncertainty – but then Lady Cersei turns her stare on her, and Sansa freezes, eyes wide. Her ladyship’s lip curls.

“Excuse me,” she says, voice like ice as she rises from the table, setting down her glass.

“Oh, don’t be rude, Cersei,” Lord Baratheon grumbles, pointing at her with a chicken bone. “Stay and eat. Be polite. Ned and his family have come all this way, and with young Sansa too. She will be calling you mother soon, sit down.”

Sansa cannot imagine ever calling Lady Cersei mother at this moment.

But her ladyship sits, as stiff and cold as ice.

Sansa prays that Lord Baratheon will keep eating and let the conversation resume, but her prayers are not answered.

“Honestly, woman,” he says. “You would think you’d be a little more polite to your own future family.”

Sansa risks another glance upwards, and sees her father’s pained expression immediately.

“Robert, perhaps you’ve had enough wine for tonight,” he says, making an attempt at a smile, playing the suggestion off as a joke. But Lord Baratheon, oblivious, only laughs.

“Ahh, Ned. I remember when you would drink twice this in a night, I do! Don’t mind the wife. She’s used to the finer things in life see. Had to convince her,” he continues in a stage whisper, “That you had twice of what you really own, old friend.”

Sansa stops breathing for a moment. Oh no … No, surely he did not? She had thought – had thought that Joffrey remembered her from the visit two years ago, had asked for her specifically …

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of something shattering, and she looks up startled, to see that Lady Cersei’s glass has snapped in her hand. There is blood running down her hand, and Sansa feels faint at the sight.

The table erupts into chaos, but it is Sansa’s mother, sitting beside Lady Cersei, who grabs her hand and begins to press a cloth from the table to it. Lady Cersei is frozen in place, just as Sansa is, but she recovers quickly and stands up suddenly, her chair screeching on the floor as she yanks her hand out of Catelyn’s. The room falls silent.

“ _If you will excuse me_ ,” Lady Cersei hisses, her hand dripping blood on the floor. Before she leaves, she levels one last look at Sansa – a look that floors her. That is _hatred_ in her eyes, pure and unadulterated rage. She yanks at Joffrey’s arm as she stalks away, pulling him out of her chair and clawing his skin as he follows, an irritated frown on his face.

The silence that falls as she leaves is deafening, even Lord Baratheon seeming to have finally woken up to his tactless behaviour.

Everyone excuses themselves hastily, not yet having reached desert but none feeling up to eating. Or at least Sansa assumes so – the thought of eating now has left _her_ stomach churning.

Later that night, Arya sits down on the side of her bed and Sansa wordlessly lets her in, needing comfort just as much. After a few minutes of silence pass, Sansa finally voices her worries.

“Do you think Joffrey hates me now?” she whispers into the night air.

“Oh, for pity’s sake Sansa. Joffrey’s a prick,” Arya answers, sounding irritated.

Sansa huffs, choosing to ignore Arya’s choice of language. “I should have known you would not understand.”

For all that Sansa and Arya do not quite bicker with the viciousness of their childhoods, they will never get along on the same level as their parents wish they would. Sansa rolls over, facing the gilded wall next to the enormous bed. Arya groans.

“Sansa, you are right to be worried, but I will never understand what you see in Joffrey. He’s awful. I would be more worried about your future mother-in-law. She won’t take Baratheon’s lies well. I would not be surprised if she takes her anger out on you.”

Sansa does not answer, because she fears that Arya is _right_. The sheer fury in Lady Cersei’s eyes that had been directed her way … Sansa nearly shudders just remembering it. Arya must mistake her silence for coldness, however, because she sighs with irritation and rolls over to face away from Sansa. Sansa wants to reach out for her, but –

She does not.

 

~

 

They have been in the house for a week when Lady Cersei announces that plague is afoot in town. She had heard it from the Martells, who had had it from the Greyjoys, who had had it from dock workers claiming a shipment of silks had brought it in. Her ladyship has been cool but polite ever since the welcoming feast, and Joffrey’s behaviour has not changed – he remains polite and charming to Sansa still – but the news of plague changes all of that. Lady Cersei becomes maternal, caring, even. She fusses over her children at all hours of the day, checking them over for the signs – she fusses over Catelyn’s children too, insisting that they all be extra careful and never leave the manor. Sansa, despite the grave news, is relieved. Nothing could be worse than a mother-in-law who hated her.

The manor closes its doors for the next week, and all seems relatively well. No one worries overmuch, apart from Lady Cersei, safe as they are inside the Baratheon home. Sansa grows bored after a fashion, as do Bran and Arya, always more than willing to play games outside all the livelong day. Still no one fears.

Until Sansa’s mother gets sick.

It starts out subtly. Catelyn grows pale after a meal one night, and asks to be excused early. Ned follows soon after, to look after her in case her illness is the result of bad food – the eggs, perhaps, or the milk. They all retire for the night, and nothing more is said.

In the middle of the night, retching sounds echo through the halls. It wakes up Sansa and Arya, and they huddle together in Sansa’s bed and pray – and pray, for hours, listening to servants bustle about the manor –

In the morning, Ned appears exhausted and pale at breakfast. He eats little, and returns to Catelyn’s bedside. The rest of the day is spent in near silence, interrupted only by news of Catelyn from passing servants – the Stark children learn that their mother is pale and feverish, and does not respond to touch or speech.

That night, another blow falls upon them. Ned does not come down for dinner, and when he is sent for, a servant appears, trembling and sombre, to tell them that he has fallen ill too.

Sansa feels faint, creeping dread taking over her body. Rickon, young enough to still be confused but old enough to sense that something is deeply wrong, clings to her skirt and begins to cry. Sansa comforts him mutely, picking him up and stroking his back. That night, all the Stark children gather in Sansa and Arya’s bedroom to huddle together, though they barely speak. They sleep in shifts by silent agreement.

Joffrey does not come to comfort her, and even in the midst of the terror gripping at her heart, the shared fear of her siblings … She cannot help but wonder why.

The next morning, another faceless servant appears in their room to tell them that Robert has also fallen ill. All of the three adults have fallen into feverish sleep, and cannot be roused to drink or eat. Worse still, Lady Cersei has barred the children from seeing their parents, for fear of the plague’s spread.

Sansa spends the day in a dreamlike state, barely feeling anything. She cannot comfort her siblings, still unable to comfort herself. _My parents are dying. I am going to be an orphan_ , she thinks. She feels nothing.

At night, she huddles together with not only her siblings, but the two younger Baratheons, Tommen and Myrcella. Joffrey has not come, electing to stay by his mother’s side. Sansa should admire him for that, but … She wishes he would come to her. To his siblings, to comfort them, so Sansa is not alone as the oldest in charge of all the rest.

That third morning, a servant comes to the door of Sansa’s bedroom, where they huddle together on the bed, all six of them. From the look on his face, Sansa knows in an instant what he is about to say.

“My lords, ladies … It is my sad duty to inform you that your parents, Lord and Lady Stark, and Lord Baratheon, have passed during the night. I – I am so sorry.” He looks it, too, which is the worst part. He must have tried so hard to save them, just like all the other servants. And they are still dead.

She spends the morning with the children in her room. They weep together, and Lady Cersei and Joffrey are nowhere to be found – but this fact is one Sansa will not notice for many weeks to come.

 

~

 

The Stark and Baratheon siblings bury their parents in a lavish ceremony, paid for by Lady Cersei, of course. All due honours are afforded to them, and Sansa watches their bodies being lowered into the ground by four of the stable-hands with numbness spreading through her like a disease. To her left, Arya cries quietly, and to her right, Rickon holds her hand tightly, weeping with much more volume than any of the others are able to produce. Sansa does not cry, though two mornings ago, when the news first broke, she had not been able to stop. She has no idea how to feel, passing in and out of reality with alarming quickness.

After the ceremony, the weeks pass alarmingly quickly. Sansa is unsure what will happen. She knows she will stay and marry Joffrey soon, but with her older brothers away at war and the interminably slow process of contacting them making matters even more complicated, she is uncertain what will happen to Arya, Bran, and Rickon. She is next in line to inherit Winterfell, after her older brothers, but with their absence she is uncertain how to proceed. So close to the funeral, they have not had time to arrange her wedding, and so Sansa’s position is precarious at best.

So when Lady Cersei calls a meeting of the Stark siblings, Sansa feels relieved. Surely all will be sorted out and they will lay down plans for the future, and all will be well now.

Sansa is wrong.

“Children,” Lady Cersei begins, having sat them in front of her in a row on the couch, while she paces before them. “I am afraid to tell you that your father left considerable debts that he was dishonest about. With your older brothers away at war, and certainly with no certainty of their return, it falls upon me to … be the bearer of bad news.”

“Bad news? What can be worse than what has already occurred?” Arya snaps from beside Sansa. Sansa turns a pleading look on her, asking her to remain silent with her eyes. But Arya does not turn away from Lady Cersei, glaring at her in suspicion.

Her ladyship answers icily. “Yes, dear one. These debts are not easily settled. As such … I am afraid that Arya, Brandon, and Rickon will have to be sent away to find work.”

Sansa opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. The thought that her siblings would leave her never occurred to her – as Joffrey’s wife, she had thought to provide for them. She cannot think of a response to such new. Arya has no such qualms about speaking, though, and neither does Bran.

“You cannot!”

“We have never worked. Who would take us?!” Bran sensibly points out the obvious, but it is no use.

“As it happens, I have already found one family willing to take in the children of a disgraced northern lord like your father was,” Lady Cersei says with a sneer.

“Our father was not –”

“Your father is _dead_ ,” Lady Cersei spits out, interrupting Arya before she can finish defending their father. All of the children fall silent with shock. Lady Cersei takes a moment to compose herself, smoothing out her skirts before she speaks again.

“I simply cannot continue hosting you children here,” she announces. “Winterfell is in the hands of your father’s debtors, so I cannot send you home. Thus, you will work. The money you earn will pay your way to live.”

There is a beat, before once more, Bran speaks up.

“How can you – Rickon is seven, he cannot be sent to work alone!” Bran’s voice betrays his anxiety, despite the sense in his reasoning.

“I am perfectly aware of the little one’s age,” Lady Cersei replies tartly. “I have arranged for the three of you to be sent together to the Reed household, closer to Winterfell. It will be hard work, and I expect you to teach your little brothers, Arya. A girl of your … tastes will surely take well to labouring work.” She smiles simperingly at Arya, who stands suddenly in anger, hatred evident in her face. Sansa holds a hand to her mouth, unable to speak.

“No,” Arya replies, furious tears in her eyes, unable to speak further.

“I am afraid it is already done, dear one.”

Lady Cersei turns her gaze on Sansa. “As for you, little dove. You will continue to reside here,” she announces shortly, and Sansa feels some lingering niggle of doubt prod at her, certain that she has missed something important.

Her ladyship turns away from them all, with a shooing gesture, dismissing them all. But before they have even stood, she speaks once more, facing away from them the whole time.

“By the way, you have until tomorrow to pack. The young ones will be travelling with a passing retinue tomorrow morning at dawn. You may leave now.”

Sansa is the last to leave the room, watching her sister stalk away with clenched fists and her brothers follow before rising from the couch to go after them. She cannot think. She knew that as Lady Baratheon, she would have to leave her siblings eventually – but it is so sudden, and Sansa always expected to leave her siblings at _home_ , in Winterfell, with their parents to care for them. Not to leave them to an uncertain future, working for pennies for a lower northern house.

That night, the siblings gather in Sansa’s room once more through undiscussed agreement to not waste their last night together.

“What are we going to do?” Bran whispers into the still night air. He is leaning against Sansa’s left shoulder, while Arya holds a sleepy Rickon in her lap at her right.

“I do not know,” Sansa whispers.

“Of course you don’t,” Arya snaps, her expression thunderous. “Lady Bloody Baratheon doesn’t have to worry about a thing. She has a husband to obey now, not siblings to worry about.”

Sansa stares at her, shocked, but unable to defend herself.

“Leave it, Arya. Sansa’s not Lady Baratheon yet. This is still Cersei’s household. The old witch is the only one to blame for this,” Bran mutters, fiddling with a loose thread on his trousers.

“So what? Sansa’s going to be the lady of the house some day. She could have at least _tried_ to defend us,” Arya growls.

“Arya, please,” Sansa pleads. “What was I supposed to say? Joffrey and I are not yet married. I cannot make orders as if I run the manor, not yet. Lady Cersei is still in charge, at least for now.”

Arya snorts, disbelieving. Sansa reaches out and grabs her hands in desperation. Arya’s hands ball into fists as she glares at Sansa in response.

“Arya. I promise, the second Joffrey and I are married, I will send for you. For all of you,” Sansa says firmly, glancing at Bran and Rickon, the latter of whom smiles hopefully. “We will have to stay in contact, of course,” Sansa says, thoughts racing ahead. “When you get to the Reeds, you must write to me and tell me how you fare. I will send letters as well, and keep sending them until you reply,” she adds, nudging Arya’s shoulder.

Arya grunts a reluctant confirmation. “Yes, well. Obviously. I will look out for them,” she says, determination in her voice. Arya’s stubbornness has more often than not been a great pain to Sansa, but right now she can think of nothing she loves more about her sister.

“It will be all right,” she confirms, as much for her own comfort as her siblings’. They nod in unison.

Together, they spend the rest of the night whispering about plans to get through the next – well, however long it takes until they can be together again. In the morning, they awaken in a sleepy pile of tangled limbs to a servant’s knock informing them that Lady Stark and the young Lords must be leaving immediately.

Rickon begins to cry, but there is nothing for it but to obey. Sansa sees each of her siblings off without shedding a tear. Not when Rickon continues to wave until he rounds the corner on Bran’s back, following a caravan of travellers up the road. Not when Arya, trembling, wraps her arms around her and whispers that she will miss her in her ear.

It is not until they are all gone from her sight, and Cersei’s hand clamps down on her shoulder, that Sansa begins to weep. She is all alone now, and she does not know how to stop in the absence of loved ones to stop for. At least her dear Joffrey will still be there for her.

If only he came out of his rooms nowadays.

The day passes much more slowly than the past weeks have, now that Sansa has no siblings to distract her, to protect from harsh reality. Eventually, she works up the courage to find Cersei and make the inquiries that she must make.

“Lady Baratheon?”

Her ladyship turns to her with all the grace of a predatory cat, a glass of wine in her hand. She sets it down on the sitting room table. Sansa swallows, hard.

“I prefer to go by Lady Lannister, now, Sansa. You know that.”

Sansa had not known that, but she perseveres. “Lady Lannister. I was wondering – you found situations for my siblings very quickly. I am very grateful, of course, but I did think – I wondered whether a date had been set for my wedding,” she asks, nervously folding her hands before her like Sister Mordane has taught her to.

Lady Cersei gazes at her impassively for a few moments, appraising her silently. “Oh yes. I was waiting until your siblings left to tell you, little dove. I’m afraid it simply slipped my mind.”

Sansa feels a creeping sense of dread make its way up her spine. “Tell me what?”

“Well, I had thought you might have figured it out, all things considered. My mistake, little dove. You will not be marrying my son,” she announces, dropping the news like a thundering weight into the silent room.

“Not – I will not marry Joffrey?” Sansa repeats. “But I thought – was it not already arranged?”

Lady Cersei titters a laugh, raising a hand to cover her mouth as if she is embarrassed for Sansa’s sake.

“Oh, no dear. You will never marry my son with the debts you have inherited from your father.”

Sansa gapes, unable to process the news. If she does not marry Joffrey … If she does not become the lady of this house, how can she ever send for her siblings? Horror dawns inside her as she realises that she has sent Arya, Bran, and Rickon away indefinitely.

Lady Cersei continues to speak through Sansa’s internal realisation, however, and her words bring more horror.

“Of course, those same debts must be worked off somehow, so I have opted for the kinder option. You will live in this household, still, Sansa. Do not fear. You will be a servant.”

A _servant_? Sansa cannot – she does not know _how_.

“You may thank me in due course, little dove. In the meantime I would recommend that you make your way downstairs by the end of the day, a room has been cleared for you in the servants’ quarters. Oh, and don’t bother bringing down your possessions. I am afraid they will have to come out of your father’s debts. Take your simplest dress and some undergarments only, the rest will have to be sold.”

“Sold?” Sansa repeats, unable to think straight. How can she be a servant? And her jewellery, her fine dresses … her mother’s ring, to be sold to strangers?

“Well, the rest will go to Myrcella of course. But mostly sold. And Sansa?”

“Yes?” Sansa whispers, unable to conjure up anything more.

“Remember that you are a lady no longer. You will be addressed as Sansa, not ‘my lady.’ Correct anyone who says otherwise,” Lady Cersei says. “That is all.” She dismisses Sansa with a wave of her hand.

In that moment, Sansa wants nothing more than to break down and cry once more, but instead she enters that dreamlike state once more, feeling herself walk half a step behind her body as she gathers her two simplest dresses – one in brown wool, for warmth, and one a lighter grey cotton for the summer months – as well as her undergarments in her arms. Before she leaves her room for the last time, some instinct insists that she pocket her mother’s ring. She prays her ladyship has not seen it, does not know that Sansa will have taken it. Something tells Sansa that she is the sort to not be stingy with the lash when her servants are caught stealing. _Servant_ , Sansa thinks, uncomprehending. _I am a servant. I am alone_.

That evening, she descends into the servants’ quarters with trepidation for the first time, alone. The servants who guide her to her room all look the same to Sansa, who has not yet come out of her state of dreaming. It is only when the door shuts to her tiny cupboard of a room, barely big enough for the tiny bed squashed into it, that Sansa begins to come back to herself. And then, standing silent and still in the room, tears begin to fall down her cheeks once more, and she knows with certainty that she is quite alone now, and will be for the interminably long future stretching out ahead of her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has a brief scene of suicide ideation, and implied sexual harassment/possible molestation, as well as canon typical abuse. More details can be found in the end notes.

_Two years later._

 

“Sansa!”

Lady Lannister’s screech is possibly the worst sound to wake up to. Not only for its volume, but because it means that Sansa has almost certainly done something wrong and is about to be punished for it. She scrambles up as fast as she can – she must have fallen asleep by the fireplace in the kitchen again, because her nose immediately fills with soot and she sneezes twice in quick succession before she manages to call back that she is on her way.

She makes her way upstairs with dull dread in her heart, carefully going over her list of daily chores to make sure that nothing will be out of order. True, she has only just awoken, but that is well enough – she still has time in the day, judging by the early morning sun outside the windows she rushes past. Lady Lannister does not usually wake up so early, but it could have been anything which woke her, there is no reason to believe that Sansa is in trouble … At least, she hopes so.

Finally, Sansa reaches her ladyship’s room. Taking a deep breath, she enters with a polite knock.

“There you are. I rang the bell twice,” Lady Lannister sniffs as Sansa enters. She is reclined on her bed, immaculately dressed to the unstudied eye – but Sansa can see the signs of her drinking: the flushed cheeks and thin sheen of sweat on her brow.

“I apologise, my lady. It is only that without the other servants –”

“I believe I specifically recall asking you not to make any more complaints about the servants, Sansa. There is work enough for you to complete in good time. I have told you many times that it will teach you to be grateful and diligent in your duties.”

“Of course, my lady,” Sansa murmurs. There is indeed work enough for her, and a number of others too. But the servants have been almost entirely dismissed as Lady Lannister’s finances have worsened over the last two years, so it is left all to Sansa. Her ladyship tells her it is so that she will learn skills that will make hiring her out easier, but she never quite gets around to doing so. So, Sansa stays with the Baratheon children and their mother, knowing that the world outside is still more dangerous than in here.

“Is there anything my lady wishes?” Sansa prompts, after Lady Lannister lapses into silence, idly fingering the lace of an ever so slightly worn pillowcase. She cannot afford anything better.

“Wine,” her ladyship says, and makes a dismissing gesture with her hand.

“Would – would my lady like to break her fast with wine?” Sansa asks timidly. She walks a thin line by mentioning Lady Lannister’s drinking, even through mere implication.

Her ladyship levels a stare at her, as if trying to gauge whether Sansa’s words have a hidden meaning. _Perhaps I do_ , Sansa thinks, with a stab of defiance in her stomach causing her heart to beat faster. Eventually, however, Lady Lannister nods.

“Breakfast, yes. For the children too. Serve us in the west dining room.”

“Yes, my lady,” Sansa replies, relieved that she may leave without further viciousness. But her relief comes too soon.

“Oh, and Sansa?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Go and wake my son. I wish to have words with him.”

Sansa feels a flurry of fear in her stomach. There can be no doubt as to which son Lady Lannister is referring to, and the thought of being alone in a room with him – of waking him when he will not want to be roused – is terrifying. But she must do as she is bid or face worse consequences. Her ladyship has proven that with the lash enough times.

“Of course, my lady,” she replies, trying to hide the fear in her voice.

Lady Lannister says no more, so Sansa leaves, knowing a dismissal when she sees it after all this time. The churning in her stomach worsens as she nears Joffrey’s room, knowing that he cannot respond well to being woken this early, though Sansa herself considers this morning a lie-in. The gilded walls of the manor pass in a blur as she draws nearer to his room, consciously forcing herself not to slow her steps. The sooner it is over, the better.

She reaches his door and, before she can talk herself out of it, knocks twice. No one answers, and Sansa squeezes her eyes shut for a brief moment, knowing she will have to enter. She opens the door softly.

Joffrey’s room is deceptively neat today. He has been known to destroy his possessions on occasion, when he is in one of his moods. But Sansa had cleaned it only yesterday, and it appears that Joffrey has not yet seen fit to destroy her hard work just yet.

She cannot see him yet, but he is likely abed and thus covered.

“M- My lord?” She ventures further into the gloom, heading for the windows to let in the light. She prays that his temper will remain calm.

She reaches the long window furthest from his bed, and slowly begins to pull back the curtains. Seven long windows, and then she will leave. Still he does not answer. She swallows and raises her voice a little more, turning her head towards his bed with more dread than curiosity.

“My lord? Your mother has requested your presence.”

A muffled groan from the bed. Thank the gods. If she is lucky, he will be too sleep-addled to bother her overmuch – and if she is quick with the curtains –

“What does she want?” His nasally voice remains smothered by his piles of blankets and furs.

“I do not know, my lord,” Sansa says, subtly yet hurriedly trying to open the curtains as quickly as possible so that she may leave. “She said only that she wished to speak with you this morning.”

Three sets of curtains down. Four to go.

Another groan from the bed.

“Ugh. My _mother_ is a nagging witch. Tell her I will do as I please,” Joffrey mutters, rolling over and pulling several blankets with him.

“As you say, my lord,” Sansa replies quietly. One more set of curtains, and then she is free.

Joffrey is silent for several more moments, and Sansa finally opens the last set of curtains. She immediately turns towards the bedroom door, taking several light steps towards it in the hopes that Joffrey has fallen back to sleep. But as with Lady Lannister, Sansa’s relief once again comes too soon.

“Say, Cinder-wench. You wouldn’t happen to be forgetting something, would you?”

Sansa has frozen, mid-step. _Not today. Please, no day at all, but not today, not today_ … She does not know what humiliation he will force upon her, but she does not know if she can stand it if he lays his hands on her.

“My lord?” She asks, turning, head bowed, towards the bed.

Joffrey chooses that moment to sit up, his fat lips pulled back in a grin that makes Sansa’s whole body react with repulsion. He pauses, drawing out her uncertainty, and it is in moments such as these that Sansa lets herself feel hatred towards him, beyond her normal terror. The man who might have been her husband. Sansa does not know if that life would have been better or worse than this one.

“My chamber-pot, Cinder-wench,” he says with a sneer.

Of course. It would be foolish to think he would let her go without performing obeisance to him.

“Yes, my lord,” she says, not daring to look up at his face again.

She empties it outside the window, keeping her face carefully neutral under his gaze. She does not retch, like the first time she did this for him. He had hit her so hard that even Lady Lannister had reprimanded him then, though that had mainly been for the visible bruise he left. When it is done, she holds the pot under her arm to take it down to the servants quarters for a quick cleaning, and keeps her head bowed.

“Will that be all, my lord?” she asks quietly.

He draws out the silence once more, and Sansa feels the pit of dread inside her grow heavy and dull.

“Yes. For now.”

_Thank the gods_.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Sansa makes her exit hastily, not daring look back at Joffrey. He has never quite given up on the idea that he was meant to marry her. Not in the sense of loving her, of course. Sansa has long given up her foolish illusions in that regard – she does not believe that Joffrey is capable of it, not after the way he has treated her … and his siblings too, young enough to bully with ease. But Joffrey has never given up the idea that he was meant to marry her because it means that he would have owned her officially, instead of merely being able to mistreat her as a servant of his mother’s household. Not to mention his inability to satisfy his carnal lusts. Lady Lannister has never permitted him to go that far, because a bastard on her hands would be a nuisance, and Sansa works without wages that another servant would need.

But that does not mean he does not sometimes push his luck in that direction.

Sansa does not let herself think about it.

 

~

 

They are low on herbs for the kitchen. Sansa has only been cooking for them on her own for the last six months, Lady Lannister finally having let the cook go a year and a half into Sansa’s unwilling apprenticeship. The cook, Alys, had never been exactly … the caring type. But she had taught Sansa well, never allowing mistakes and forcing her to memorise all of the meals in her repertoire. And one of the things Sansa had learnt and indeed loved was foraging for herbs when the kitchen supplies ran low. So once breakfast is served and the animals are fed, once the younger Baratheons’ rooms have been tidied and the floors swept, Sansa takes a small basket out into the forest behind the Baratheon manor and breathes freely for the first time in weeks.

Wild cress, spring onions, and berries are all common in the woods, amongst others. Alys had taught Sansa how to recognise the good from the bad by having her pick for herself many times. Unless the plants were like to kill her, Alys let her eat and learn which were good based on whether they made her sick. Sansa had not quickly forgotten which ones were good to eat after that.

She follows the path from the back of the manor into the woods a little further than is strictly necessary, passing by several blueberry bushes, tangled along the sides of the path, as well as a few clumps of what she suspects are probably chives hiding in the shade. But there is a clearing up ahead, one she has travelled to many times to be alone. Alys almost never went out so far, preferring to gather the herbs and be done with it. She had always reacted badly to the pollen in the air, tearing up and sniffing irritably, desperate to return to the safety of the household. Sansa has always loved it out here, though, ever since she discovered the clearing, a few months into her servitude.

Whenever she steps out into the clearing, it is as if every hurt, every particle of grief in her body drops away. The sunlight warms her face, and she closes her eyes to better drink it in. The stream nearby babbles endlessly past the small pond that borders the clearing, and Sansa loves to lay down in the sweet green grasses and simply feel the breeze run across her skin. The brief hours she spends there are the only peace she knows now.

Today is equally as freeing, the second she walks out into the clearing. She takes her time gathering what she needs, dallying as much as she is able to without worrying that trouble will wait for her when she returns to the manor.

Without warning, a twig snaps loudly behind her and she jumps, startled into looking around to the treeline. At first she can see no one, and only the sounds of the breeze and the stream nearby reach her ears. She turns once more and – there, just inside the shadows. A figure astride what appears to be a horse.

“Hey!” Sansa shouts, with more bravado than she feels. Her heart pounds quickly, but there is apparently no need, because the figure in the trees startles, turning and riding away quickly. Sansa watches the trees for a few minutes longer, but the figure does not return.

She gathers her basket skirts and leave as fast as possible, and does not return to the woods for the next two weeks.

 

~

 

But return she does. She must, for Lady Lannister is not given to spending unnecessarily on anything that is not wine. So it is that Sansa comes back to the woods to gather herbs and berries that by all means she ought to be buying from the market.

Today, the sky is grey and moody. The stream is muffled by a troubled wind that moans amongst the trees. Somehow, it is not these things which make Sansa’s heavy heart unable to relinquish her burdens as she usually does in the clearing which has become her haven.

She does not know what it is, in truth. Only that it has been too many days since she lost her parents in one devastating blow. Too many empty nights spent missing siblings who will not write, who show no sign of having received her letters. Sansa has stopped trying to send them, now. The endless agony of not knowing is only marginally better than taunting hope tugging at her heart every time she sits down to write to them. She has spent too long on her own. Even before the other servants left, none had ever grown close to her, perceiving her accent and her posture and her damned letter-writing as snobbish, uppity. Above her new station in life.

Sansa sets down her basket by the pond, and kneels beside it, feeling herself enter one of those tranquil, empty states of mind that she can never seem to prevent at times like this. She sits back, lying down, and stares vacantly into the grey clouds. But the clouds are too much, too big and confusing to continue looking at now, and she turns her head to her side. It is then that she spots the flowers.

They are a bright shock of purple in the green grass. Three stems of tiny flowers, waving gently in the wind. Sansa remembers owning a dress in just their shade, once, many years ago. She reaches out a hand for them, twisting the stems to break them off and pull them into her lap. She sits up to contemplate them.

She knows these flowers. Wolfsbane. One of the few poisonous plants Alys had not allowed her to eat. She remembers reaching out a hand for them many months ago, only to be slapped away by Alys’ quick arm.

_“That’s wolfsbane, girl. Don’t ever make the mistake of throwing them in your basket. They’ll kill you quicker’en you can think, got that?”_

Sansa strokes the petals of the flowers delicately. Quicker than she can think.

_That does not sound so bad, really_ , she thinks, through the fog in her mind. She wonders how painful it would be. If her stomach would clench up tight, or her head to begin to pound. She remembers the way nausea wracked her body for hours after Alys let her eat raw elderberries to teach her a lesson … Wolfsbane. It would be a fitting name, at least, for a northern wolf-girl ...

“Are you all right, my lady?”

The voice startles Sansa into dropping the flowers and pressing her hand to her chest in a gasp. She scrambles upwards, turning every which way to discover the source of the voice. She need not search far, though, because the source of the voice turns out to be a rider on the edge of the clearing. They are angled just so that Sansa cannot see their face, and her heart pounds as she realises she is all alone out here, with no one to know she is missing.

“I am not a lady,” Sansa calls out to the rider, unable to think of anything else to say. She winces at the choice nonetheless.

“I – I apologise,” the rider replies. They gently set their horse forward a few steps, emerging into the dull afternoon light. The rider is a woman – an incredibly tall and muscular woman, but a woman nonetheless. There is something familiar in her face – the blue eyes, perhaps, or the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Sansa squints at her, but cannot place where she has seen her face before.

“Do I –” Sansa stops, swallows. She feels foolish for even asking, but she must know. “Do I know you?”

The rider’s expression immediately stills, but they appear shy more than nefarious. “I should think not, my lady,” she replies, an edge of nervousness in her voice.

“I already told you, I am not a lady,” Sansa replies, dropping her head to stare at her boots, worn and cracked.

“You did, at that,” the rider replies, looking bashful. “You just – you look like one. And sound like one, I mean, in your tone,” she adds hastily.

Sansa does not know how to reply to that without revealing more than she cares to to a stranger. The rider clears her throat.

“I am sorry for – interrupting you like that. It’s just, I don’t know if you realised, but you were holding Wolfsbane. It’s fatally poisonous if you ingest it.”

“I know,” Sansa replies, before she can think better of it. “I mean – I am familiar with poisonous plants, I gather herbs from the forest all the time. I was just – just – looking. At the flowers,” she finishes lamely. She was doing more than looking, though. Contemplating how they would taste, what they would do to her.

“Oh,” the rider says, looking even more embarrassed. “I, uh. My name is Br– Brella. May I – may I ask yours?”

_Brella_. Sansa had worked alongside a maid named Brella once, before all the servants were dismissed.

“Cat,” she blurts out, not letting herself think about why she has chosen that name in particular. “My name is Cat.”

Brella smiles shyly at that.

“Cat,” she repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“It was – it is a family name,” Sansa explains, wondering even as she does why she is telling a stranger this.

“Well, Cat, I – I’m sorry for interrupting your afternoon. It was rude of me. I’ll be on my way, then,” Brella says, bowing her head and making a motion with her feet to turn to horse back towards the path.

“Wait!” Sansa cries, before grimacing at her obvious desperation. But Brella turns the horse back, curious. The horse makes a disgruntled noise at its rider’s indecision.

“It wasn’t rude of you, I am sorry. You were quite right to make sure I knew I was handling poison. Thank you,” Sansa says, and curtsies deeply, the way Sister Mordane had taught her to as a child. The is an awkward pause before she rises, and sees that the expression on Brella’s face is oddly pained. She swings herself off the horse and – oh dear, it wasn’t just the horse: Brella truly is incredibly tall.

“You’re welcome, Miss. Any time. I – I ride through these parts often.”

“You do?” Sansa says, surprised. She never sees a soul around the forest, too many superstitions keeping common folk from straying too far from the path.

“Yes. It is a good place to get away from – from – duty,” Brella says, stumbling over the last word.

Sansa nods. “It is, at that,” she says with a sad smile

It is at that moment, gazing at Brella up close, that Sansa finally takes notice of Brella’s fine clothes. Supple leather, designed for hard riding, makes up her boots and trousers. But her shirt is softest cotton, with artfully done stitches along the lines of her doublet and short cloak, sewing better than even Sansa is capable of. There is even embroidery, rows of twisting vines, on the front of Brella’s doublet. Deep shades of emerald green – an expensive luxury.

Sansa is suddenly very aware of her old, patched-up brown dress, frayed at the hem. She had only messily pushed back her hair under a handkerchief to keep it out of her eyes while she worked that morning. Judging from Joffrey’s taunts that morning, she is probably still covered in soot, too.

“What – what duties must a lady such as yourself escape?” Sansa asks, as delicately as she can. If Brella is nobility, and a friend to Lady Lannister, Sansa ought to leave as soon as possible …

“I, erm,” Brella stutters, turning bright red. “I am – an apprentice. At the palace. My master is hard on me, sometimes, that is why I like to come to the forest.” Brella holds herself awkwardly, hunching a little in a completely ineffective attempt to hide her height. Sansa can see that Brella is not beautiful, not in the way that maidens are meant to be beautiful. But she is obviously strong, and though her posture is ungainly, it is clear that she rides well and in all likelihood, is graceful with the sword she casually rests a hand on at her side.

“Are you a squire, my lady?” Sansa asks, gesturing to the sword. “Or perhaps a member of the kingsguard?”

Brella’s eyes widen as she nods quickly. “Yes! Yes, I am. A member of the kingsguard, that is. Not a squire, not for a couple of years now.”

Brella must only be a couple of years older than herself, then. Squires typically become officially ordained as knights at eighteen. But still, so young, and already a sworn protector of the king himself.

“Are you suggesting that the king is a difficult master, then, my lady?” Sansa questions.

Brella’s eyes widen comically and she begins stuttering out a denial before Sansa lets out a giggle, almost dizzy with the unexpected feeling. Brella gasps accusingly when she realises what Sansa is doing.

“You – you!” is all she is able to sputter out while Sansa continues to laugh.

“I am sorry, truly,” Sansa says, smiling. “It matters not to me whether you consider the king a hard taskmaster. I will never know him, nor any of the royals.”

“Is that so?” Brella asks, eyes sharp with interest.

“Oh, never. My mistress is the only master I need worry about,” Sansa says, smile fading as she remembers what she will have to return to by the end of the day.

“Oh,” Brella says, and Sansa sees her swallow nervously before venturing to ask what Sansa knows she is about to ask – but still, Sansa wishes she wouldn’t. “And is she … good to you?”

Sansa carefully constructs an answer for this stranger, who will not understand Sansa’s situation.

“She is a mother to three children. I have cared for the youngest these past years. They are good children.” Truly, Tommen and Myrcella are the only light in that household. But even they wilt under their mother’s harsh reign. Tommen stutters and hides away, and Myrcella, much like Sansa, just become quiet sometimes.

Lady Lannister loves them sometimes, so their sweetness has not entirely been lost. And Sansa is grateful to her ladyship for that, if nothing else. Strangely, her cruelty seems to have nothing at all to do with Joffrey’s.

“Cared for her children? But –” Brella stops herself, biting her lip.

“But what?” Sansa asks, confused.

“Forgive me if I presume – but you seem very young to play the nursemaid,” Brella says, shrugging awkwardly.

Sansa shakes her head. “No, you misunderstand. They are thirteen and fourteen. I am – I am eighteen, but …” _But sometimes I feel much older_. _The children are so sheltered, like I was once._ she does not say. “Well, I am the only help available. So I have helped to care for them.”

“Oh, I see,” Brella says, nodding. Silence falls on the clearing and Sansa notices with a start that it is beginning to get dark, the brooding clouds stealing what remains of the setting sun’s light. She has not gathered any herbs or berries, and Lady Lannister and the children will certainly be wanting dinner soon – her stomach starts to churn as she contemplates what will await her when she returns. _Gods above_.

“I’m sorry, but I – I must be going. It’s getting late. One shouldn’t linger too long in these woods,” Sansa says, with something like regret. She wishes, for a moment, that she was free to linger. To continue their conversation, discover what it is that makes Brella shy away from her, when she is clearly the more powerful between the two of them – sword at her side and all.

“Of course,” Brella replies, looking at her feet. “Do you – would you care for an escort?”

“An escort?” Sansa asks, bemused. Whatever would she need an escort for?

“Well – as you said, the woods are a dangerous place to wander in alone,” Brella prompts, looking eager.

“It matters not to me,” Sansa shrugs. “I am alone more often than not. I know the way back.”

“But you don’t have to go back alone,” Brella presses. “I would – worry. I mean, what sort of knight would I be if I left a maiden alone in the forest at dusk?”

“Well, what sort of maiden would I be if I led a strange knight back to my home after a single meeting?” Sansa cries, but there is no heat in it.

“Oh, I didn’t – I mean I would _never_ –”

Brella looks horrified at Sansa’s implication, so Sansa takes pity on her.

“I know. It is well, Ser Brella.”

“Ser?” Brella looks surprised to hear Sansa use the correct honorific.

“What else does one call a knight?”

“I … I do not know. No one has ever – the kingsguard are not fond of me, you see. I am only … Brella, to them.” And there, she is back to looking ashamed. Sansa’s curiosity grows.

“Well, Ser Brella. I am afraid I really must be leaving now. But …” Sansa bites her lip before continuing, wondering if she really is as foolish as Lady Lannister always accuses her of being. “Perhaps we could – meet again? I never gathered the herbs I intended to today. I will have to come back within the week anyway.” Sansa holds her breath, waiting for Brella’s answer. But she only smiles, with the barest hint of a blush on her cheeks.

“I would like that, Cat. I will be riding through here in four days, at about this time again, if you wish to meet here. Perhaps I can escort you next time.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa says, attempting to be stern, but there is a smile fighting its way onto her mouth.

“I will wait,” Brella promises. Sansa cannot remember the last person to keep a promise to her. Truth be told, she does not really believe Brella. But it is a sweet thought to contemplate.

“Then, if I may leave …?” Sansa asks, arching an eyebrow.

Brella starts and moves backwards, gesturing with a flustered expression towards the path. Sansa picks up her basket and walks past her.

“Until then, my lady,” Brella blurts out as Sansa passes. Sansa does not turn, glad that Brella cannot see her expression at being addressed as if her parents still lived.

“I told you,” she calls back over her shoulder. “I am not a lady.” _Not anymore_.

“Goodbye, Cat,” Brella says, raising her voice as Sansa continues to walk. Sansa raises a hand in farewell.

When she makes it back to the manor that night, she prepares dinner for the family as if in a dream once more, but not the nightmarish, sluggish reality she has come to accept. This kind of dream propels her with warmth, with a glow of light inside her that no one can see. No one notices but her, and as she lays down to rest later that night, in her own bed instead of by the fire, it fuels her dreams into visions of home that for once comfort rather than torment.

 

~

 

Two days later, Tyrion Lannister arrives unexpectedly from Lannisport. Myrcella and Tommen shriek with delight to see him, like children far younger than they are, and he laughs and remarks upon how much they have grown, and how little he has. Joffrey barely grunts his greeting for his uncle, taking a cue from Lady Lannister, who barely deigns to order Sansa to show him to his room. He travels with two serving men, Bronn and Pod, who make their way down into the servants’ quarters without her assistance, and Sansa nervously hopes they stay far away from her tiny room.

Sansa leads Tyrion towards his room slowly, silently accounting for his smaller steps. She walks in silence, head bowed. This is not the first time Tyrion has visited the household, but it is the first since the other servants were dismissed, and Sansa has never been alone with him until now.

“Tell me, my lady. How has my dear sister been treating you since last I was here? I notice there are no other servants around,” Tyrion says mildly, pushing his hands behind his back as he walks.

“I am not a lady,” Sansa responds automatically, before taking a moment to wonder at the unlikeliness of such an address twice in as many days. “I mean – I am sorry, my lord. Lady Lannister finds it more economical to leave the work to me. I am quite capable of it,” she continues.

“Ah, I see. I do not believe you answered my question though, Miss Stark.”

“My lord?” Sansa questions, risking a glance at him with a puzzled frown on her face.

Tyrion gives something of a sad smile, as if he already knows the answer. “How has my sister been _treating_ you?”

Just as in the forest two days before, Sansa’s throat clams up at the thought of revealing the truth of her situation – of her feelings, to anyone.

“Lady Lannister is a – a precise mistress,” Sansa says, clumsily stumbling through the lie. Lady Lannister is not precise. She is, Sansa sometimes thinks, the most spectacularly chaotic of all of them, even Joffrey, whose moods can at least be relied upon to always target the weak. Lady Lannister, on the other hand, is hypocritical in all things and contains so many contradictions that Sansa thinks it is no wonder she drinks.

Tyrion snorts loudly. “Precise, eh? That is the first time I have ever heard my sister described as such. I will commend you for the attempt, Miss Stark,” he sighs.

Sansa says nothing in response, thanking the gods that they have arrived at Tyrion’s rooms. She opens the doors and gestures for him to enter with a nod. He enters slowly, never taking his eyes off her, though she continues to stare at the ground.

“Will my lord require anything else?” Sansa asks, steadily ignoring his gaze.

“No, thank you, Miss Stark. Though I hope you know that – my nephew and my sister are not all there is to this family.” Tyrion offers his words as if they are an apology.

“Of course. Tommen and Myrcella are young still, but will always bring honour to the Baratheon name,” Sansa answers diplomatically.

“Thank the gods I am a Lannister, then,” Tyrion says sadly, before nodding to her as dismissal.

Sansa leaves quickly and decides to begin early on dinner that night. She has three extra visitors to serve tonight, and the work will keep her busy for some time.

 

~

 

The next couple of days are exhausting as Sansa struggles to keep up with cooking for extra guests. Her workload is not so different in any other respect, since Tyrion’s men keep to themselves and serve him so that she does not have to. Still, it is a relief to Sansa to realise that today is the day she can return to the forest to stock up on wild herbs. She tells herself that the excitement she feels at the prospect is no more than the excitement she would feel at any other excursion to the forest. She almost believes it, too.

Her feet are light as she leaves the manor in the late afternoon. The sky is clear today, unlike her last venture out, the sun warming her skin the moment she steps out from the shadow of the manor. The second the trees swallow her up, Sansa reaches up and unties the handkerchief holding back her hair and shakes it out, determined not to appear such a mess as she did the last time she ventured out.

When she reaches the clearing, Brella is not there, but Sansa does not dwell on it. She leans down by the stream and splashes her face, scrubbing off the soot she is certain is dirtying her skin. Satisfied that she has cleaned it off, she dries her hands and face on her apron and picks up her basket, determined to come back to the manor this time with the herbs she set out for.

She picks several varieties over the next half hour or so, even discovering a few spring onions hiding by the edge of the pond. The basket fills slowly, Sansa calculating in her mind which will need to be chopped and used soon, and which hung aloft in the kitchen for a few months before they can be consumed. She is in the midst of wrestling with a particularly stubborn root when she hears the lazy beat of hooves slowly approaching.

“A fine afternoon, is it not?” A voice accompanies the sound of hooves. Sansa recognises the voice as Brella’s instantly. She rises and turns to greet her.

“Very fine,” she says. “But warm, if you must sit in the sun to gather roots.” Sansa passes a forearm over her forehead, aware that she must look a state with sweat, and shakes her hair back to let a breeze cool the back of her neck.

When she squints a little into the sunlight, Brella has a strange expression on her face that Sansa cannot decipher.

“Brella?”

Brella blinks. “My apologies. I was just – uh, do you need any help?”

“Oh, I am almost finished. Don’t trouble yourself,” Sansa says. She gathers up her skirts and her basket and walks a little closer to Brella, who looks oddly apprehensive. “Let us walk, Brella,” Sansa says. There is something in knowing that Brella knows next to nothing about her which makes her bold.

“Of course,” Brella says, ducking her head as she dismounts from her horse. Sansa notes that she is just as tall as Sansa remembers, and she must look up to see her face properly.

They walk side by side, Brella leading her horse along by its reins. The silence that falls, oddly, does not feel uncomfortable. The sound of the stream nearby and the buzzing and whirring of small insects leaves Sansa feeling calm, connected to the world around her – a rare feeling that she cherishes. Brella does not look her in the eye, but Sansa senses that that is out of shyness, if her stutter is anything to go by.

“How – how has your mistress been treating you?” Brella eventually says, and just like that, Sansa’s good mood evaporates.

“Oh, well,” she begins, thinking about how best to phrase her answer. “Her brother has just arrived from their childhood home, so the household is busy. The children are happy to see him, though, he is a good uncle. Always brings them treats from his travels.” It is true, Lord Tyrion has always treated his niece and nephew well … Not Joffrey, of course, but Sansa hardly blames him for that. Lady Lannister is the only member of the family who seems to have any real love for her son.

“And you? Does he treat you well?” Brella’s voice sounds particularly anxious to know, and Sansa looks up at her in surprise.

“Yes, of course. He is nothing like –” Sansa stops herself from saying any more. She does not know what it is about Brella that loosens her tongue like this, but she cannot risk nobility like Brella knowing the extent of her situation, or lose what little living she has if it gets back to Lady Lannister.

“Like your mistress?” Brella inquires, but softly, without any sense of trickery.

“I was about to say … Like her son. He is the oldest male in the house, but his mother is the authority. I do not believe it suits him,” Sansa admits, silently thinking that no authority is good for Joffrey because he can respect none. But that is a subject not worthy of dwelling upon. “Tell me, Brella. How did you come to be a member of the kingsguard at such a young age?”

Brella’s shoulders shift a little, uncomfortable. “I … I proved myself a warrior,” she says shortly.

“Oh, is that all? And how does one prove oneself a warrior?” Sansa teases, curious to know more but increasingly aware of Brella’s insecurity.

“My father attempted to find me a suitor. When he found a willing man, I – I knocked him down and broke his nose.”

Sansa doesn’t mean to, but she lets out a surprised giggle nonetheless. “And they made you a knight, for that?”

Brella smiles sheepishly. “Well, not quite. My father does not want me to be a knight at all, he never has. He always used to show me off like a prize cow at auction to men, but of course they never – I mean – well, you know what I mean.”

“…No, I am sorry. What _do_ you mean?” Sansa asks, puzzled.

Brella hunches over even further, if it is possible, and her cheeks flush a deep shade of red. “No man has ever shown interest in me in that way. Any man who did would be a liar,” she says quietly.

Sansa stops walking.

“Brella, you must know that is not true.”

Brella shrugs uncomfortably, turning her attention to her horse and settling it quite unnecessarily. Sansa feels pained to see the source of Brella’s insecurity so clearly laid out before her.

“Brella,” Sansa says, grabbing her hand unthinkingly. “You are clearly a talented warrior. You are strong, and – and tall, and I know that that is not how we maidens are meant to look. But you – you must know that there are many who would find you beautiful.”

Brella stares down and snorts disbelievingly. Sansa remembers being told that a lady ought never snort in public by her mother many years ago, on one of the rare occasions that she and Arya had been laughing with one another. But she only finds it endearing when Brella does it.

“Brella, truly. I think you are the most beautiful maiden I have ever seen,” Sansa says determinedly. _Especially your eyes_.

… She does not know where that thought came from.

Brella does not respond but continues to stare at – ah. At their conjoined hands. Sansa feels warmth in her cheeks as she gently lets go.

They resume walking in silence, and this time it _is_ awkward. Sansa clears her throat delicately.

“So, you … you knocked down a suitor, and your father let you become a knight?”

Brella seems thankful for the change of topic. “I knocked him out, and my father lost his temper and swore I would never see the sword so long as he lived. But time passed, and no men showed any further interest after that … So, my father eventually relented and declared that if I was to turn away all my suitors – not that I ever had many – then I should at least learn something useful.”

“And what did your mother say to that?”

“My mother died when I was very young,” Brella says, shrugging.

“I am sorry.” Sansa’s throat thickens with a lump suddenly.

“It is well. I do not remember much of her, truly. I do not know what she would think of my – my occupation,” Brella muses aloud.

“I do not know what my mother would think of mine either,” Sansa lets slip. Once again, she finds herself cursing internally for revealing too much.

“Is she –”

“Yes,” Sansa says, cutting Brella off before she can say the words that still bring Sansa pain.

“What of your father?”

“With her.” Sansa knows such short answers are rude to give, but she cannot allow herself to say more.

“I am sorry, Cat,” Brella says, repeating Sansa’s words from earlier. But Sansa cannot dismiss her loss as easily as Brella did.

Silence falls once more, but Sansa shakes it off quickly, finding herself inquiring as to Brella’s duties as a member of the kingsguard. The king, she learns, is ailing, and his only daughter will take the throne after he passes. Brella’s face looks … strangely distressed at revealing that particular bit of information, but Sansa reassures her that there is no shame in caring for one’s master, especially when he is the king. Of course, Sansa knows little about the royal family, the current king being a distant cousin of the previous royal to occupy the throne who had died without issue only three or so years ago. Sansa cannot remember Sister Mordane or Maester Luwin ever teaching her much about the new royals.

They idle away the rest of the afternoon in much the same manner, discussing everything from royal gossip to the price of herbs in the market that Sansa can find for free in the forest. Eventually, Sansa must turn back to the house as the sun begins to set. This time she lets Brella escort her most of the way back, stopping a little short of the manor so that Brella will not recognise it. Brella mounts her horse, preparing to leave Sansa there, but hesitates before moving off.

“Cat?” Brella asks, looking nervous.

“Yes?” Sansa breathes out, unsure as to why whatever Brella is about to say is making her stomach flutter.

“I – would it be – I mean, shall we meet again? In the woods?”

Something warm unfurls inside Sansa at Brella’s hopeful voice, and she nods in response.

“Of course. I am often there in the late afternoons. You can – come and find me, if you’d like.”

“I would,” Brella replies, twisting the reins of her horse in her hands.

“Until then,” Sansa says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide ideation summary: Sansa discovers Wolfsbane, a poisonous planet, by a pond. She considers eating it due to her circumstances, but is distracted by hearing a noise, and decides not to. Later she remembers briefly what she considered doing and is horrified.
> 
> Sexual harassment summary: Joffrey is said to push his attentions on Sansa, but is mostly stopped by Cersei, who doesn't want to risk him impregnating her. He still makes comments that make Sansa uncomfortable.
> 
> Abuse summary: Canon typical, Joffrey has hit Sansa in the past and Cersei is cruel to her.
> 
> "Brella" is like, the only canonical ASOIAF name that starts with "Br". Don't blame me, blame GRRM. Who I hope is not seeing this, like, ever. Dude hates fanfiction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a panic attack; more details in notes. As usual: blanket warning for abuse.

Over the next few weeks, Sansa sees Brella in the forest often. She wonders that Brella is able to take so much time away from her duties in the kingsguard, but decides not to question it if they may spend more time together. After all, Sansa still prefers not to be too forthcoming regarding her own circumstances – she can hardly blame Brella for having secrets. Her days away from the Baratheon household, the hours she spends in the woods with Brella … They are all that keep her from despairing some days. When Joffrey leers at her, or Lady Lannister spits cruel words and demands ever more wine while Tommen and Myrcella withdraw from her.

Tyrion is still staying in the household, and has ordered his men to assist Sansa more often. They do not necessarily care to do it, but obey nonetheless. With their help, Sansa’s chores are less gruelling, and she has more time to spend outside in the forest. Brella is not always there, but Sansa loves to spend time away from the manor regardless. Being away from the gold and white walls of the manor, being free of her cage, is simply … better.

One early morning, before the rest of the household have awoken – or in Lady Lannister’s case, before she has gone to sleep – a messenger arrives at the manor. Sansa intercepts him before he can knock for any longer and risk Lady Lannister’s wrath. Judging from his clothing, richly embroidered with the royal family’s coat of arms, the message comes from the palace, and Sansa has never been more tempted to open a scroll before delivering it to her ladyship. But she resists, knowing that the punishment for such an infringement of her ladyship’s privacy would be severe. She waits a few hours until she is certain Lady Lannister will not beat her for waking her up early, and goes up to her room.

“My lady?” Sansa asks timidly, before knocking gently on the door. No one responds, so she cracks open the door softly, tiptoeing into the room. Much like her son, Lady Lannister is sleeping in late today, wrapped in a pile of blankets with a shock of golden hair all that there is to prove she is in there.

“My lady, I apologise for waking you. There has been a message from the palace.”

Her ladyship sits up, looking wide awake. Sansa suspects she was only pretending to sleep to see if she could catch Sansa stealing, not that Sansa would ever dare.

“Is that so? Where is it?”

Sansa hurries forward and hands over the message, waiting patiently while Lady Lannister reads through it, eyes scanning the lines quickly. When she looks up at Sansa again, her ladyship looks sharper than Sansa has seen her in weeks.

“Fetch my son,” she says, dismissing Sansa quickly.

Sansa makes her way to Joffrey’s room with curiosity burning in her belly, almost enough to burn away her fear. Luckily Joffrey appears to be in a good mood, because he only throws a few cruel names her way before following her to his mother’s rooms. Sansa makes herself as unobtrusive as possible, wiping invisible dust from the windows with a rag, as she has learned to do to appear invisible. It must work, because Lady Lannister begins to speak in her presence.

“There is to be a ball, Joffrey. I want you to attend.”

“What, so you can parade me out before the richest girls you can find? They’re all simpering idiots, Mother. They only want Baratheon name,” Joffrey scoffs, already irritated. Sansa attempts to stay out of his line of vision.

“Not the girl I am thinking of. She will not need your name, but you will need hers,” Lady Lannister says, in that dangerously soft tone she is sometimes capable of when sober.

“What,” Joffrey says, flatly. _What indeed_ , Sansa thinks, for perhaps the first time ever in agreement with Joffrey.

“The ball is in three weeks. All eligible young bachelors are to attend, and that includes you. The princess is seeking a consort since her father’s health is deteriorating. I expect you to charm her,” Lady Lannister says, and Sansa feels appalled at the thought. Joffrey, the future queen’s consort? The gods only know what sort of havoc he could wreak. She wipes the next window with a little more force than is necessary.

“Charm her? I’ve _seen_ her, you can’t expect me to marry _that_ ,” Joffrey spits, suddenly furious. “That bitch is the ugliest cow I’ve ever –”

“That _bitch_ is your future queen, Joffrey. And if you keep your temper around her for the night of the ball, you may be lucky enough rule alongside her.”

Sansa knows next to nothing about the future queen, her education having stopped short just when the current king took power, but she prays the princess is clever enough to see through Joffrey’s lies. Exactly the way that Sansa hadn’t, not until it was too late.

Joffrey grinds his teeth, a habit he’s taken to lately. It makes Sansa want to cover her ears.

“Fine,” he growls, and Lady Lannister looks mollified. The occasions in which she can control Joffrey’s behaviour have grown fewer and fewer as the years have passed, but Sansa can see that this is a victory for her.

Joffrey stalks away, slamming the door behind him like a child. Sansa finishes sweeping away the invisible dust on the sills and makes to leave, but her movement only seems to remind Lady Lannister that she is there at all.

“Sansa.”

She turns back, head bowed. “Yes, my lady?”

“Do not presume that this invitation includes you. You will remain here to look after Tommen on the night of the ball.”

“Can Tyrion not care for him?” Sansa blurts out, not truly intending to argue, but confused by her ladyship’s request of caring for her youngest specifically. But she can see it is a mistake immediately as Lady Lannister’s nostrils flare with anger.

“That imp would have nothing to do with my children – would not be here at all – if he had not done such a poor job as a son that I was forced to host him. You may be a naïve fool of a girl, but you will take care of Tommen and keep him away from that thing that calls itself my brother. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lady,” Sansa replies quickly, though she remains as confused as ever. What has Tyrion ever done to make Lady Lannister hate him so much? Indeed, what had Tyrion ever done to make Lady Lannister think that he could not be around her children? _They clearly adore him_ …

The rest of the day is spent as if the morning’s news never arrived, all proceeding as normal in the household. It is only at dinner, while Sansa is serving the family a meal of roasted vegetables and praying they do not notice the lack of meat which they cannot afford, that Lady Lannister brings up the news again – this time, to Myrcella.

“Myrcella, dear, there’s been news of a ball to be held in the palace three weeks from now. The princess is seeking a consort amongst all of the eligible bachelors of the land – lowborn and highborn alike, unfortunately. The gods know what possessed the princess to make such exceptions,” Lady Lannister sighs, an edge of distaste creeping into her tone. “Joffrey and I will be attending, and I think it best you should too. It will be a good opportunity for you to come out into society.”

“Really?” Myrcella says, unable to contain her excitement. “Oh, thank you mother!”

“Just remember your courtesies,” Lady Lannister says, but there is a rare smile on her face – the kind of smile she reserves only for her children.

“Will Sansa be going too?” Myrcella asks innocently, and just like that, her ladyship’s smile freezes. Sansa’s heart nearly stops.

“Yes, sister. Will Lady Stark be attending the ball she is more than eligible for?” Tyrion adds, sarcasm evident in his voice. The look Lady Lannister turns on him would whither a lesser man, but Tyrion makes a brave attempt to remain calm.

“Sansa will not be attending, and I wish to hear no more of it,” Lady Lannister replies shortly. Joffrey is less civil.

“What, and show up covered in her own filth? The cinder-bitch isn’t worthy to step into the palace,” he says, a nasty smirk playing around his face.

“Language, my dear,” Lady Lannister replies mildly. “Sansa will sew a dress for Myrcella, so her handiwork may make it there for her. But that is all.”

Tyrion says no more, and Myrcella has shrunk under the weight of the controversy she appears to have caused.

No one thinks to look at Sansa, quietly standing by the table with an aching heart.

 

~

 

The market place is busy at this time of day, but Sansa is simply thrilled to be able to go at all. Lady Lannister has finally allowed her to leave the manor for real food instead of whatever she can scavenge from the forest. She has sent Sansa off with Myrcella in the hopes that Sansa will be able to come across some good cloth for Myrcella’s dress, and Sansa does not mind her ladyship’s interference for once, considering the Lannister daughter’s kind nature.

Myrcella is strangely quiet today, though, as they walk through the market. Sansa picks up a few vegetables that are not so easy to discover in the forest, and a jar of honey to make cool honeyed milk with, before they make their way to a cloth merchant’s. While Sansa wistfully runs a soft skein of pale, mint-green cloth through her hands, considering whether it will compliment Myrcella’s green eyes, she feels a tap on her shoulder.

She starts a little and turns – only to see Myrcella, biting her lip with a pinched expression.

“Sansa?”

“Y-yes?” Sansa says. “Have you found something to your liking, my lady?”

“No, I – I just wanted to say – I didn’t mean to get you in trouble the other night,” Myrcella says, flushed with shame.

Sansa gapes. Myrcella and Tommen have always been good to her, but never – their mother has made certain that she has never been more than a servant to them. She hesitates too long in answering.

“I know that apart from Tommen I am the youngest, and everyone thinks that makes me a child. But I am not stupid. I know that mother does not – treat you as well as she could.”

“Your mother is my mistress, my lady. I am a servant. She has every right to – treat me as she does,” Sansa replies numbly. Sansa has accepted those truths. She does not understand why everyone else in her life is so determined to prove her wrong when this is the situation she must endure.

Myrcella wrings her hands, looking frustrated – it makes Sansa finch a little instinctively, but she can see that Myrcella’s frustration is with herself.

“You should be going to this ball, not me. I mean – I do _want_ to go. But _you_ should be going. You are a lady. I won’t have any idea of what to do in front of the princess and the king.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, I am not a lady, I am just your servant. Don’t say things like that.”

“And I am not a child! I remember who you were when you came here.”

Sansa remembers too. Sometimes she almost wishes she didn’t.

“Please stop, my lady. There is no use dwelling on the past,” she says quietly.

As Myrcella goes to open her mouth once more, however, she’s interrupted by a voice from a couple of stalls over.

“Sansa? Is that Sansa Stark?”

Sansa’s blood runs cold. She knows that voice.

She turns, to make sure, but her hunch is correct. It is Margaery Tyrell, looking more beautiful than ever in a resplendent green gown, making her way towards her.

Sansa does the only thing she can think to do – she runs.

She makes it to the edge of town, panting, cloth forgotten. She holds her basket of fresh vegetables and fruits close, checking that nothing has fallen or been bruised by her flight – but it is all well. Sansa closes her eyes and leans against the great outer wall, fighting to catch her breath.

What is Margaery doing in King’s Landing? How could she have recognised Sansa so quickly – from the back of her head, no less. Oh gods, and Sansa had fled, leaving Myrcella there. Lady Lannister will beat her bloody if she discovers it. Sansa’s heart is still pounding hard, making it difficult to think. Her breaths come more shallowly, and she cannot think, cannot see anything other than Margaery’s smiling face at the sight of her. Nausea rises inside her to think of how badly her ladyship is going to hurt her when she returns without cloth for Myrcella, and gods above, _she lost Myrcella_.

The next few minutes are spent with her heart pounding in her chest, her breathing hitching on every gasp, never able to get enough air into her lungs. Her vision blurs in and out, and she cannot remember where she is, how she got there, only knows that _Myrcella is gone, Myrcella is gone, Myrcella is gone_ and Lady Lannister is going to hurt her and punish her and punish her and –

By the time Sansa has recovered enough to breathe evenly, she has sunk down into the dirt, back against the wall still. Dread sits like a stone inside her, holding her down, too weak to stand.

“Sansa?” A voice cuts through Sansa’s clouded thoughts. She looks up, exhausted, and sees Myrcella’s timid face above her. Myrcella kneels. “Sansa, are you all right?”

It is the concern in her voice that does it, that makes Sansa finally break. Tears rise in her eyes and she cannot speak for the lump in her throat. She gasps for air, desperately attempting to hold back the sobs that threaten to burst from her throat. Her hands come up to cover her eyes, trying to hide this from Myrcella, who is only a girl like she once was and does not deserve having to deal with Sansa’s panic.

Myrcella makes a concerned noise and kneels down before her, hesitantly placing a hand on Sansa’s shoulder while she struggles to control herself. Eventually, Sansa manages to gulp in enough air to speak.

“Please do not – please do not tell Lady Lannister about this,” she whispers, the stone in her stomach dropping.

“I would never, Sansa. I mean – there is no harm done, anyway. I got the cloth, see?”

In her terror, Sansa had not seen it – but it appears that Myrcella has retrieved the cloth they needed. It is a pale green colour, soft as silk but with a little give to it. It will look lovely on Myrcella, Sansa can tell just by looking at it.

“It is lovely,” she whispers, sniffing back tears. She feels pathetic.

“It will be lovelier when you are finished with it, I am certain!” Myrcella says brightly.

“Thank you,” Sansa replies numbly.

Myrcella takes the basket gently from Sansa’s hand and lays the cloth atop it, folded neatly. She seems to come to a decision before speaking once more.

“Sansa, I spoke to Margaery Tyrell. She seemed to think she knew you.”

Sansa’s heart begins to beat faster once more. “Oh, gods. I cannot see her like – this. What did you tell her?”

Myrcella hesitates before answering. “I told her … I told her that she must have been mistaken. I told her that you were my – servant, and I sent you off just before she arrived, and that’s why you left. I tried to – Well, I did, I called you Cat,” she says, with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Oh,” Sansa says, swallowing. “It’s funny you should say that, actually …”

“Why?” Myrcella asks, eyes wide and curious. Sometimes Sansa forgets her youth.

“I told someone else my name was Cat, once,” Sansa replies truthfully.

They spend the next few minutes in silence, Myrcella having run out of topics to speak about and not daring to ask about why Sansa had reacted so violently. Sansa is grateful for that, at least. Eventually, Sansa recovers enough strength to climb to her feet and quietly suggest that they return to the carriage they came in, still waiting outside the city gates, no doubt with Tyrion’s man having gotten well worth his coin in wine by now. Myrcella quietly follows her back, and they do not speak while riding home.

 

~

 

The measuring, cutting, adjusting, and sewing of Myrcella’s dress takes up quite a bit of Sansa’s time over the next week, and so she does not make it out into the woods again for that time. She misses the company of Brella, wondering if the knight is concerned for her, hoping that she has not stopped coming to the woods in the meantime. But there is nothing to be done with Lady Lannister breathing down her neck, insisting that Myrcella’s gown be completed as soon as possible.

Myrcella has become increasingly secretive too, reserved, even. It perplexes Sansa to see the bright, extraverted girl she once knew become withdrawn, but nothing appears amiss – Myrcella still smiles at her and spends time with Tommen and their uncle. She is simply less … childish than she once was. Sansa hopes it has nothing to do with what Myrcella saw in the marketplace, but does not dare ask. Myrcella has taken to writing letters, though to whom she is writing, Sansa has no idea. She sends messages every day, furiously writing in her study when Sansa does not require her to measure. On the seventh day of her newfound passion for writing, Myrcella shrieks upon receiving a particular missive, her hand clapped to her mouth.

Sansa stares up at her from her sewing, shocked. “My lady? Have you received … good news?”

Myrcella looks up from the letter with astonishment on her face. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and she clutches the letter with a vice-like grip. Just as Sansa is beginning to worry that Myrcella has lost her wits, Myrcella seems to recover herself, closing her mouth – but not losing the excited look in her eyes.

“Sansa. I – I won’t be needing you today. But I have a task for you,” Myrcella says, her voice edged with a little hysteria.

“Anything, my lady,” Sansa says, though she is starting to worry. Myrcella almost never assigns her actual tasks, leaving that to her mother.

“I want you to go out into the woods and pick me a poesy of flowers. Any kind, it matters not. Just – pick as many as you can find, search long and hard.”

Sansa blinks. “A … poesy, my lady?”

“Yes. As many flowers as you can find. Immediately,” Myrcella says, raising her chin and giving her an uncharacteristically stern look, though there is still a twinkle in her eye that Sansa cannot place.

“Whatever you need, my lady,” Sansa responds automatically, placing her sewing carefully on the table of the sitting room and brushing off her hands. She walks to the door of the room, unable to help glancing back at Myrcella, who is rereading the letter with a look that can only be described as _ecstatic_ on her face.

When she reaches the woods, Sansa is only able to spend a little time gathering flowers for Myrcella’s strange request before she is interrupted by the sound of a horse approaching.

“Cat!” Brella’s voice sounds happily surprised.

Sansa turns to her with a smile. “Hello, Brella.”

“I was beginning to think you would not come anymore,” Brella says, hopping down off her horse.

“Never,” Sansa says with a laugh, though that is not a promise she can really make.

“That is good to hear,” Brella replies cheerfully.

“The last week has been busy, that’s why I didn’t come,” Sansa explains, beginning to walk along the path with Brella – they don’t need to discuss it anymore before settling into their routine.

“For me, too,” Brella says with a grimace.

“Oh? Why’s that?” Sansa asks, curiously.

“There is to be a ball for – for the princess. Her father wishes for her to find a consort to rule alongside.”

“I know.”

“You do?” Brella sounds surprised.

“Of course,” Sansa says, shrugging. “Why do you think I’ve been so busy? The whole household is preparing for it, including me.”

Brella’s expression changes into something Sansa cannot quite decipher. “So, you – you will be coming to the ball?”

“Oh, gods no. Her ladyship would never allow it. I’ve been helping her daughter, sewing her a dress. It will be her first ball.”

“Oh,” Brella says. “Of course.”

“I suppose you will have to attend, though, won’t you?” Sansa says.

“Why – why is that?” Brella says, looking nervous.

Sansa frowns with puzzlement and speaks slowly. “Because … you are a member of the kingsguard, and the king will be there?”

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Brella says hastily. “I will definitely be attending. Because of the king. Who I need to guard.”

“… I should think so,” Sansa says, perplexed by Brella’s strange behaviour.

“It is a shame you cannot attend, though, Cat,” Brella says.

Sansa sighs, her immediate instinct to protest that there would be no point, that her situation cannot be helped. But with Brella … For once, she wants to be honest.

“I wish … I wish I could. I know I have been – somewhat reticent, with what I have told you about my situation,” Sansa says, feeling a nervous flutter in her stomach at the level of honesty she is attempting to create.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Cat. Really,” Brella says, in a troubled tone of voice.

“I know. There are things I cannot – thing I do not even know how to admit to myself,” Sansa says, clenching her fists at her side before folding her hands together. “But I want to be honest about this.”

“All right.” Brella’s steady voice gives Sansa something like strength to continue talking. Around the two of them, the sounds of the forest provide a gentle reminder that Sansa is not alone. She takes a deep breath.

“I have … I have been to many balls before, Brella. Never a royal one, of course. But I used to love the ones I did attend – the dancing, the splendour, the gowns … Even when my sister would refuse to wear one and my mother would scold her, or when my brothers tried to pull my hair out when I pinned it up specially, I miss them. All of that is in my past, and I tell myself there is no use dwelling on it, that it cannot be helped, but – sometimes I just wish I could be who I once was. I wish I could be …” She trails off, not finishing the sentence aloud. _Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. That’s who I wish I could still be_.

“I’m sorry,” Brella says. She stops walking to turn and face Sansa. She hesitates for only a moment before touching her shoulder, more gently than Sansa can ever remember being touched.

“It is not your fault,” Sansa whispers back. “It is not anyone’s fault, really.” Lady Lannister is cruel, but still provides a roof over her head. Her siblings do not write to her because she chose Joffrey over them, she knows that now. And the death of her parents can only be blamed on the whims of the gods.

“I do not know about that,” Brella says doubtfully. “If – if you once attended balls regularly with your family, I think you have probably fallen far. There is usually someone to blame in cases like that.”

“Not in mine, Brella. That is all I wish to say about it,” Sansa responds, deliberately ignoring the bait to speak more about her past. Brella’s thumb moves gently against her collar bone.

“Of course, I – I am sorry if I pressed too hard,” Brella says, sounding sincere.

Sansa resumes walking, pulling away from Brella’s hand. “It is well, Brella. I only wish to avoid dwelling upon it.”

“Then – perhaps we might speak of lighter subjects,” Brella offers. “Would you care to hear about how thoroughly the Kettleblack brothers were beaten yesterday?”

“You know me too well,” Sansa laughs, unable to help herself. Brella smiles at that, watching the road ahead, and Sansa’s heart skips a beat.

They spend the rest of the afternoon speaking only of happy things, inconsequential and mindlessly entertaining. When it gets dark, Sansa lets Brella walk her closer to the manor than ever before, finding it difficult to care about propriety or secrets when the walk offers an opportunity to spend more time together.

When Sansa finally makes it back, arranging the flowers she had gathered in a vase for Myrcella, she cannot help but smile to herself. She knocks on Myrcella’s door and enters, humming, when Myrcella asks her to come in.

Funnily enough, there’s a strange smile on Myrcella’s face too.

“So, Sansa … did you enjoy your walk?” Myrcella asks, lightly bouncing her leg. Lady Lannister has tried to curb the habit, to no avail.

“I did, my lady,” Sansa confesses, arranging the flowers on a small table in the corner of the room. Myrcella does not need to know _why_ it was so lovely, after all.

“Any particular reason for that?”

Ah.

Sansa cannot stop the flush creeping up her face, and pretends not to notice it in the hopes that it will go away. “No reason, my lady. It was simply … very beautiful weather today.”

“Oh, _very_ beautiful, I am sure,” Myrcella says, something mischievous in her voice.

Sansa turns to her, suddenly suspicious – though she does not know of what. Myrcella could not possibly have known about Brella … She definitely could not have known that Sansa would meet Brella in the woods _today_ when she sent her out.

“… Will there be anything else, my lady?” Sansa asks.

“No, no. Nothing at all. But Sansa?” Myrcella says, suddenly looking serious.

“Yes?”

“There is a small tear in your hemline. You might try wearing another dress tomorrow,” Myrcella says.

Sansa looks down, and is surprised to find that Myrcella is right. Her grey gown has a widening tear in the hemline at her feet.

“Of course, my lady,” Sansa says, though she cannot figure out why it is so important to Myrcella that she fix her dress. It is not as if it is designed to be fashionable, after all.

“You can leave it in the drawing room with my gown, if you like. It would save time,” Myrcella prompts.

“As you say, my lady,” Sansa, perplexed at Myrcella’s insistence. Then again, she is only fourteen, and such whims were common to Sansa at her age.

Sansa leaves Myrcella that night confused, but happy still. She never knows what the next day will bring, not with Lady Lannister so prone to cruelty and Joffrey to destructive moods. Sitting by the embers of the kitchen fire that night, though, Sansa is inclined to feel hopeful, even cheery. Knowing that every day might bring the possibility of the woods, and Brella, is enough to send her to sleep without nightmares – only sweet dreams full of sunshine, the scent of green grass, and someone strong and beautiful to protect her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed panic attack warning: Sansa runs away from Myrcella at the market and panics when she realises what she's done, assuming that Cersei will beat her. Myrcella finds her and comfort her and no one gets beaten.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Comments are always appreciated :) Also: I've watched like four different versions of Cinderella in the past week for this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

One week later, the night of the royal ball arrives. Most of the day Sansa is kept busily making last minute adjustments to Myrcella’s dress and running to and fro on whims for Lady Lannister. Joffrey stays in his room most of the day, until Lady Lannister insists that he be dressed for the ball approximately an hour before they are forced to leave. He kicks the door shut behind him when he leaves, spitting at Sansa to leave well enough alone while the family is gone – though Sansa never dares enter his rooms whether he is there or not unless ordered to.

Before Sansa knows it, the family is minutes from leaving the house. She stands with Myrcella in the girl’s room, straightening and adjusting her gown for the last time. The beautiful mint green, silky fabric that Myrcella chose compliments her complexion beautifully and brings out her eyes. In truth, Myrcella looks just like her mother – but with a sweetness about her that Lady Lannister has long since lost, if ever she did have it. Myrcella’s hair is pulled back in a jewelled hairnet, jade sparkling in her golden curls. She is the picture of beauty and youth.

Sansa steps back, after brushing Myrcella’s shoulders down one last time. She bites her lip, wanting tell Myrcella how lovely she looks – but the fear seeded inside her by Lady Lannister stops her. No one is keeping her around for unsolicited opinions on beauty.

Myrcella looks nervous, though, so Sansa can at least comfort her in that regard.

“You need not worry, my lady. You will surely charm everyone you speak to at the ball tonight,” Sansa offers, hoping to calm her nerves.

To Sansa’s surprise, Myrcella laughs. “That is not what I am worrying about,” Myrcella says finally. “Sansa … Will you promise me something?”

“Whatever my lady wishes,” Sansa says, a little stiffly because she can never know what this family wants from her, even the children.

Myrcella takes a deep breath, looking down at her feet, before looking into Sansa’s eyes with a strange intensity. “Promise me you will let yourself be happy. If an opportunity comes that will make you happy – take it. Please.”

Sansa opens her mouth and closes it, twice. It is not her finest moment, but how else can she react to such a statement? How can Myrcella think – what has come over her, to speak thusly?

“My – my lady?” Sansa stutters out. She cannot think of what else to say.

“Just –” Myrcella lets out a frustrated sound before continuing. “Sansa, you are allowed to be happy. If opportunity knocks, answer. That is – that is all I wanted to say.”

“As you say, my lady,” Sansa replies, still mystified.

“Myrcella! It is time to leave!” Lady Lannister’s voice carries throughout the house well.

Myrcella winces and looks at Sansa one last time, before sighing at whatever she finds on Sansa’s face. “Let us go down then,” she says, and Sansa follows, wordless.

When they get downstairs, Lady Lannister barely deigns to glance at Sansa, while Joffrey leers at her but quickly follows his mother out the door. They settle into the carriage awaiting them with grace, looking every inch the nobility they are with Lady Lannister in her crimson gown and Joffrey resplendent in gold. Myrcella is the last to leave, glancing at Sansa before she enters the carriage, Bronn at the front looking annoyed by her hesitance.

“Remember what I said, Sansa!” Myrcella cries.

“Take care, my dear,” Lady Lannister interrupts, frowning lightly at her daughter. “A lady ought never raise her voice … even to a servant.” Lady Lannister’s hypocrisy knows no bounds.

With most of the family sent off to the ball, Sansa serves a small dinner to the remaining members, Tyrion and Tommen, in the sitting room rather than the dining room. Tommen listens, wide-eyed, as his uncle spins fantastic tales of dragons and great battles overseas. As she stands by the door, patiently waiting for the two to finish their supper so that she may take their dishes downstairs to be washed, Sansa feels a pang in her heart when Tyrion’s tales drift closer to the subject of the war in Essos. She has not heard from Robb or Jon for many years, and they are, in all likelihood, long since dead.

Tyrion claims that the war has reached a stalemate, ongoing negotiations being dashed repeatedly by the dragon queen who bows to no one. Tommen gasps as Tyrion describes the great swathes of fire her dragons produce, roasting men by the thousand. But Sansa cannot bear to listen anymore, and heedless of the consequences of leaving her master unattended, quietly slips from the room.

She begins by walking, but quickly breaks into a run, picking up her skirts and flying towards the front door, heart pounding as she thinks of the freedom outside the manor’s gilded walls. Unbidden, tears gather in her eyes as she nears the door, the thought of her dead brothers – scorched into charred bones, cinders just like her – playing her mind against her will, and she quickens her pace.

But when she pulls the doors open, there is someone waiting behind them, hand poised in the air and ready to knock.

The woman blinks, before her eyes widen, and Sansa recognises her – it is Margaery Tyrell. As quick as lightning, Margaery clamps a hand over Sansa’s mouth before she can even open it.

“Do not be angry with Myrcella! And Sansa, for the sake of the gods, do not run this time!” Margaery pleads, her face lined with concern. “And do not scream. What happens tonight must happen secretly.”

Margaery slowly takes her hand away from Sansa’s mouth, but Sansa is still too shocked to form coherent speech. “Why – how did you –”

“All will be explained, but we haven’t much time. Let me in and help me carry this bloody trunk wherever you are staying and I will tell you.”

For the first time, Sansa notices a trunk by Margaery’s feet. As she peers out into the night, she can see a carriage waiting nearby too, the tail of one of the horses swishing irritably. The man holding the reins tips his hate to her.

Sansa nods dumbly, still too stunned by Maragery’s sudden appearance here, at the manor, to speak. In any case she cannot risk being seen fraternising with nobility lest it get back to Lady Lannister and she think the worst. The two of them take an end of the trunk each and carry it down to the kitchen, Sansa leading the way, her head whirling with confusion. When they manage to lift and drop the trunk with two strained grunts onto the table, Sansa finally turns to face Margaery and ask her the questions that have been flitting through her head for the past two minutes.

“What are you doing here? I do not understand,” Sansa whispers, afraid to be discovered by Tommen and Tyrion if they should happen to hear her speaking from across the manor, despite the unlikelihood of such an occurrence.

“Myrcella. It was all Myrcella,” Margaery pants, having lost her breath in heaving the trunk around. Sansa notices that Margaery has been tightly laced into a pink and green gown that peeks out from beneath her gold-embroidered cloak. _She must be on her way to the ball … But then, how …?_

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks.

“That day in the market. I knew it was you, but I did not understand why you ran. Myrcella told me all. Sansa, I … I am so sorry for all that you have lost,” Margaery says, reaching out to touch Sansa’s forearm. Sansa shies away from the touch, and Margaery looks down, apologetic. “She’s a bright girl, Myrcella. She told me that her mother has been keeping you prisoner here.”

“I am not a prisoner,” Sansa says, though something twinges in her gut, as if it is a lie.

Margaery snorts. “Yes, well, I do not know what _you_ would call forcing a lady of the north into drudgery and sending her siblings away so she cannot band together for help, but _I_ would call it keeping her a prisoner.”

Sansa says nothing, feeling a flush of shame warm her cheeks.

“But that is not the point. The point is that Myrcella knows that the way you have been treated is wrong. She is not a stupid girl, but she still lives under the thumb of her mother. And that is where I come in,” Margaery says, sounding smug. “Half the kingdom is at the palace tonight, hoping to win the hand of the princess. But Sansa, my dear, I have it on good authority that none of them shall. Because you will be in attendance.”

“What – me?” Sansa sputters, unable to comprehend Margaery’s plans. Some part of her still cannot believe Margaery is _here_.

“Trust me, Sansa. I do not wish to ruin the surprise just yet, but – suffice to say that I am privy to some things which are going to make tonight _very_ interesting. Grandmother would be so proud if she knew, but I cannot tell her, because she would kill me.”

“I don’t – I do not know what to say to you, Margaery, I … It has been years since we last spoke. I am not the girl you knew. I am just a cinder-wench,” Sansa says, staring at her feet as she self-consciously crosses her arms over her drab gown.

That seems to stay Margaery’s enthusiasm. She looks at Sansa for a moment, really looks, and sighs.

“Believe me when I say that if I had more time, now, Sansa … I would not be meeting you in this way. I would … I would tell you all of what has happened in the years since we were girls. I would write letters with you to your siblings, and find out what happened to them, because the gods know that Myrcella has no idea. I would listen to everything that has happened to you and I would never let you come back to this manor if I could help it. But Myrcella and I made a plan. A plan to set your free from her mother’s clutches. And it is time sensitive, so Sansa, for the sake of the friendship we once had – will you trust me?”

Gazing into Margaery’s eyes, Sansa bites her lip, unsure of what to do. It is true that they were friends once, best friends. Sansa had long thought those times past, never to be revived. But Margaery is here, standing right before her and asking for a second chance at their friendship, even with Sansa’s … reduced circumstances. She wants to save Sansa from those same circumstances.

“All right. For tonight. But I expect an explanation,” Sansa warns, feeling something of her old self come into her tone.

Margaery jumps a little on the spot, letting out a girlish squeal of excitement. “I will, I will! But for now, we need to get you ready for the ball.”

“I have nothing to wear,” Sansa says, twisting her hands anxiously in her faded dress.

“Well, what do you think I have in that trunk, you silly thing?” Margaery says.

Sansa’s eyes widen and she immediately lifts the lid. Inside is nestled an enormous gown, shimmering swathes of palest blue fabric cushioning a bodice lined with pearls. It is stunningly beautiful.

“I – It will not fit me. And I cannot pay for this,” Sansa says.

“Oh, do not worry about payment. If all goes as it should that won’t be of any concern for you. And it will fit. I gave the dressmaker your measurements a week ago.”

“My measurements? How …?”

“Myrcella.”

Sansa’s mind flashes back to the day that Myrcella had insisted upon leaving her old brown dress with the pieces of Myrcella’s ballgown, and almost groans when she realises. So, that’s what Myrcella had been up to … She must have taken Sansa’s measurements from her old gown to make this beautiful new one.

“You have been writing to one another,” Sansa says, the truth dawning on her.

“We have,” Margaery says. “Glad you noticed. But there is no time now, hurry up! I need to get this gown on you. The gods know if it will fit as it ought.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Sansa struggles into the truly enormous gown that Maargaery has prepared for her. The shift, crinoline and corset tucked away into the trunk are the first to go on, Margaery pulling the laces tight behind her. Then the gown itself goes on over the top, layers of airy, light fabric settling over Sansa like so many clouds. The sides of the gown lace up with ribbons, and it fits exactly as it ought to with the adjustments so carefully sewn into the design. Finally, the gown is settled over her – and it practically fills the kitchen, it is so wide. Sansa has no idea how she’ll get through any doorways, but Margaery looks delighted.

“Here,” Margaery says, holding Sansa still. She wets a cloth in a basin of cold water and scrubs at Sansa’s face with it, making Sansa wrinkle her nose, though she knows that she must have soot on it for Margaery to be frowning so. Next, Margaery hands her a pair of long, silky white gloves which reach halfway up her arms.

“Not sure what I can do about your hair … Well, it’s been braided all day, so it should be nicely curled, at least. Give me a minute and I’ll do something with it.”

Sansa waits patiently as Margaery produces a brush from within the seemingly endless trunk and carefully unbraids her hair, pulling the front half of it into a knot at the back and securing it with two mother-of-pearl combs. When she is finished, she comes around to face Sansa again and stares at her with wide eyes, while Sansa fidgets, unable to read her expression.

“I told you, Margaery. I am just a cinder-wench,” Sansa says, feeling humiliated.

Margaery blinks.

“Sansa, that is not – by all the gods, Sansa, you look beautiful,” Margaery says earnestly. “Where can I find a mirror? I think, in the trunk, there should be –”

Margaery rummages through the trunk for a few moments, before pulling out an ornate hand-mirror, decorated with the Tyrell rose insignia. “It was my mother’s,” Margaery offers, handing the mirror to Sansa.

When Sansa raises the mirror to her face, it is difficult not to gasp. The girl looking out from the mirror looks like the girl Sansa was two years ago. Her face is clean, pale enough to nearly glow in the dim light of the kitchen, and her cheeks are rosy. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in red waves, and for a moment it reminds Sansa of her mother, tears stinging her eyes.

“I – Margaery, I do not know how to thank you for all of this,” Sansa whispers, pressing her hand to her mouth in shock.

“Do not thank me just yet. We still have to get you to the ball.”

Without the enormous ballgown weighing it down, the endless trunk is much easier to carry upstairs between to two of them. Sansa actually finds herself giggling a little as Margaery exaggerates puffing and groaning while carrying it along. Finally, they make it out the front doors and dump the trunk onto the back of the carriage that Margaery came in. Margaery comes back around to open the carriage door for Sansa with a deep bow, introducing Hugh Clifton, the carriage driver, at the same time. As Sansa lifts her skirts to step into the carriage, however, Margaery gasps.

“Oh, no, Sansa! I almost forgot!”

“What? What is it?” Sansa asks, heart pounding suddenly – perhaps this is all a trick, one of Lady Lannister’s new cruelties …

“Your shoes!”

“Oh! Oh, Margaery, you have already done too much –” Sansa starts to say, but Margaery has already gone around to the back of the carriage and begun to rummage around in the trunk.

“Aha!” She appears to have found them. “I cannot believe I nearly forgot them, and I spent so long picking them out too. Lucky, I remembered you always had tiny feet when we were young.”

“They were not that small,” Sansa huffs – but truthfully, she can admit to herself that they were a little unusually … challenged in size.

“Of course they were Sansa. Anyhow. Here,” Margaery says, holding up the shoes for Sansa to see. They are a beautiful pair – sky-blue with pearls decorating the toes, and only a small heel for dancing.

“Thank you, Margaery,” Sansa says softly, still not entirely sure that the night is real.

“Well, do not thank me until you have tried them on,” Margaery says, dropping the two shoes onto the ground so that Sansa may step into them. She need not worry, however, because they slip onto Sansa’s feet with ease and comfort.

“They are perfect,” Sansa says, with a small smile she cannot help.

“Then let us not waste any more time and get to the palace!”

And with that, they are off to the ball.

On the carriage ride there, Sansa nearly has an attack when she remembers that Lady Lannister and Joffrey will be there, but Margaery quickly assures her that she will keep them occupied. According to her grandmother, the Lannister family would be wise to make an alliance with the Tyrells for their money – not that Margaery actually has any intention of following through on an evening’s completely false flirtations. Tears nearly fill Sansa’s eyes once more when she realises Margaery is sacrificing an entire evening to giggle at Joffrey’s crude jokes for her sake.

“I do not know how to thank you, Margaery – you have already done so much,” Sansa says nervously, as the carriage pulls up at the palace gates.

“Oh, Sansa. Please. When your letters stopped coming … For a great many months now I have been living under the assumption that you had either died or become, gods forbid, a Lannister lackey. And while I may have been quick to judge the Lannisters, considering they somehow produced that darling girl Myrcella, I cannot bear the thought of leaving you under their yolk. This is the least I could do. Really.”

“Thank you nonetheless,” Sansa says, adjusting her gloves self consciously.

Margaery grasps Sansa’s shoulders and looks at her seriously. “Now, listen carefully. I’ll go first to get the Lannisters out of the way – Myrcella has promised to help, but we cannot admit to knowing one another, so I’ll have to put on my best charms. Fifteen minutes after, you go in. Make sure to descend from the central staircase – we want everyone in the room to be able to see you.”

“Why?”

“Trust me, Sansa,” Margaery says with a grin. “You will want to make a scene.”

Sansa shakes her head, baffled. “I do not know what you and Myrcella have planned, but you ought to know that I do not trust either of you a whit,” she says primly.

“That’s my girl. Oh, and make sure you are out of there by midnight – Myrcella has it on good authority that her mother will stay no longer than that, because she will be in need of a drink. Do not fear if I am not there when you need to leave – I will be taking my family’s carriage home, Willas and Garlan are here already. But you, Sansa, you must be home before the family.”

“All right,” Sansa nods.

“Remember, fifteen minutes!” Margaery cries, squeezing Sansa’s shoulders one more time before gracefully alighting from the carriage.

Those next fifteen minutes almost destroy Sansa’s courage altogether. She sits in the carriage, smoothing her skirts, adjusting her gloves, patting down her hair and feeling an utter fool. It is like some great cosmic jape, to take someone so lowly as herself and dress her up and send her to a royal ball.

But if it is a jape, it is one committed by friends who wish the best for her. Friends that she never sought out, who came to her aid without her ever asking. Sansa has never known friendship like that until now, even before she came to King’s Landing.

The clock strikes the quarter-hour. Time to make her entrance.

Sansa takes one final deep breath, exhaling slowly to calm her nerves. And then she alights, practically carrying the skirts of her dress to avoid dirtying them on the ground. Luckily a great carpet has been rolled out over the stairs leading up to the great palace doors. She begins to ascend, counting them in her head as she goes. _Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three_ … At fifty steps, she finally gets to the top, luckily not out of breath due to her long days of hard work at the Baratheon manor.

She makes her way along a wide path surrounded on all side by blooming roses, cut and shaped to perfection, no doubt by the palace gardeners. No one is around apart from a few guards posted here and there along the walls of the castle. She stops one of them to ask for directions and be sure she can find the ballroom once inside, and is told to take the main entrance into the castle, walk twenty paces, and turn left to reach the ballroom. She hopes he is not lying to her, but follows his instructions and finds herself before another large set of doors inside, decorated in a manner not dissimilar to the gilded walls of the Baratheon manor. The footmen on either side do a double take when they see her, and Sansa curtsies, blushing at being so obviously late. They open the doors for her, and Sansa steps forward –

And is dazzled by the glittering display of wealth and grandeur before her. The doors open onto a landing carpeted with gold and blue, a grand staircase leading down into the ballroom. The room is enormous – great crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, the golden walls glittering in the light. Hundreds of faces turn to stare at the latecomer, the swish and swirl of brilliantly coloured gowns whispering in harmony. But Sansa’s eyes are arrested by one figure in particular.

Standing beside the king, who is himself seated in an elaborate throne, is Brella. And she does not stand by him as a faithful protector, dressed in the uniform of the kingsguard – she wears a gown of navy blue velvet, or perhaps it is a long coat, revealing through a split in the middle white hose and black boots. Her hair is brushed back from its usual mess of shaggy blonde into something presentable, and her eyes are on Sansa’s, shocked. But more important than any of that, Sansa can see that there is a crown upon her head.

Brella is not a member of the kingsguard. Brella is the _princess herself_.

… Sansa’s first instinct is to find and throttle Margaery and Myrcella.

The thought makes her nervous as she remembers that Myrcella is indeed here, and she glances around the room nervously, but she cannot spot the Lannisters. Myrcella and Margaery must have done their job very well. Her eyes fall again on Brella, who stares back at her in amazement, mouth open.

A cough from behind startles Sansa into remembering her courtesies, and she curtsies on the landing for the king. He appears not to be paying any attention to Sansa’s interruption, because he continues making the speech he must have been making before Sansa’s entrance.

“As is tradition amongst our people, my daughter, Princess Brienne, will now choose her partner for the first dance. May the seven bless this night.”

Brienne descends from the platform into the middle of the floor, and Sansa, in a trance, begins to walk down the staircase towards her. Brel– Brienne has never looked so beautiful, and Sansa does not know what to think.

Finally, she reaches the centre of the floor, where Brienne is waiting, still looking at her with awe upon her face. For a moment, neither of them speak. But Sansa, as always, remembers her courtesies.

“Your royal highness,” she says, curtsying deeply as Sister Mordane taught her.

“Oh, Cat – I never …”

“Wished to deceive me?” Sansa asks, and Brienne looks horrified. Sansa has mercy on her. “It is well. I was never entirely honest either. Let us call it even.”

“Whatever you wish,” Brienne says. She looks nervous for a moment, before bowing as she speaks her next words, to gasps from the surrounding crowd. “Would you care for this dance?”

Sansa’s breath catches in her throat at the unexpected offer. She had not prepared for this.

“I have not danced in many years,” she whispers back, afraid.

“I will guide you,” Brienne says.

Wordlessly, Sansa raises her arms to place one hand on Brienne’s shoulder, the other meeting Brienne’s hand in the air. Brienne gently places her other hand on Sansa’s waist, pulling her in close. The musicians strike up a waltz, and they slowly begin to step with one another, gliding in circles around the empty space in the centre of the floor.

Sansa’s gown billows around her, but Brienne deftly avoid stepping on it. As they spin, Sansa feels increasingly as if she is in some sort of wonderful dream. She cannot look away from Brienne’s eyes, blue as forget-me-nots. She has never had the chance before to examine Brienne so closely.

Before Sansa knows it, the music changes into something faster, and Brienne’s steps quicken to match. Sansa gasps a moment before laughing breathlessly as Brienne lifts her in an unexpected jump, twirling her around so that she feels dizzy. When Brienne pulls her close again, there are crinkles in the corners of her eyes as she smiles down at Sansa. Sansa can feel every place where their bodies touch.

She only awakens from her dream-state when Brienne leans in close to whisper in her ear. “Come with me,” she says.

Sansa blinks, suddenly aware that other dancers have joined them on the dancefloor. Brienne takes her hand and begins to lead her to a side door, and Sansa cannot help but giggle as they rush past shocked faces watching them leave.

Once through the door, they enter a gallery of portraits. _Royalty_ , Sansa observes silently. _Brienne’s family_. Brienne lets go of her hand, but Sansa wishes she had not. Automatically, they fall into place and begin to walk side by side. Silence falls, and when Sansa risks a glance at Brienne’s face, the bravado she showed in the ballroom is gone.

“So, your royal highness. Where are you taking me?”

Brienne wrinkles her nose. “Ah, Cat. Do not call me that.”

“What else should I call you then, _Brella_?” Sansa teases.

“Brienne! Just Brienne. Seeing as it is my name,” Brienne mumbles back, raising a hand to self-consciously rub the back of her neck. When she lowers it, Sansa gives in to the urge to take her arm, and Brienne does not protest.

“Brienne, then. Where are we going? A great many people will be wondering where you are, you know. You’re the most eligible maiden in the kingdom. I thought tonight was supposed to be about finding you a consort?”

“It … it is. But that is not important. And we are going to … Ah, I do not wish to spoil the surprise.”

Sansa laughs. “Oh, I have had many surprises tonight. I suppose one more cannot hurt.”

“Good,” Brienne says, with a gentle smile down at her.

They walk a few more paces before stopping by a door leading outside. Brienne opens it for Sansa and takes her arm once more as she steps through. Sansa feels a swooping in her stomach at the warmth of Brienne’s arm under her palm.

“Through here,” Brienne says, leading them along a narrow path lined with bluebells and snowdrops. An arbour of climbing roses rises over the path, creating a tunnel. They walk along, hidden amongst the roses, the path twisting and turning before them. Finally, Brienne stops abruptly beside her. Sansa watches, curiously, as Brienne retrieves a key from some secret pocket inside her doublet-gown. She inserts the key into a hidden lock in the leaves of the arbour, and a disguised door swings open. Sansa gasps.

“A secret garden,” she whispers, awed by the sight.

Brienne tucks the key away and looks back at her. “Yes. It was my mother’s.”

Brienne holds the door open once more as Sansa walks through, lifting her skirts carefully. She gazes around in wonder. White roses glow blue in the pale moonlight along the tall hedges, and dew-drops sparkle faintly on the grassy ground.

“This is – this is …” Sansa trails off, trying to find a word for the magnificent beauty on display.

“I know. I always feel like that myself when I come here,” Brienne says.

Sansa spots a stone bench in the middle of the garden and steps towards it, longing to rest her aching feet. She must have been dancing with Brienne longer than she suspected. She sets herself down upon it, her gown puffing out like so many clouds around her. Brienne goes to sit beside her, close, but not as much as Sansa would like. She misses the warmth of her arm.

“I never – I never knew my mother. I know that I have already told you that, but … I always wish I had. This garden was hers, she used to tend to it for years before I was born. It is as close as I have to her,” Brienne says in a hushed tone.

“If it is anything like the woman who tended it … then it must have been beautiful. And she must have been very patient, and kind, and hard-working to keep it so. Like you,” Sansa says, without thinking.

“Me?” Brienne says, looking surprised.

Sansa shakes her head, bemused that Brienne still cannot see her own strengths. “Brienne … With you as queen one day, this kingdom can do naught but thrive. You must know that, you must know how good you are. Even to me, some – some nobody, a cinder-wench with no prospects.”

“You are not nobody,” Brienne insists.

“To anyone else in the woods that day that we met, I would have been.”

Sansa can feel Brienne shifting closer on the bench, but she stares at her hands, folded in her lap. She still feels a fraud in her beautiful gown, in coming here at all. Brienne still does not even know her real name. Sansa startles as a hand comes to her chin – Brienne’s. Brienne raises her face slowly, until Sansa is looking into her eyes. Sansa forgets to breathe.

“You are not nobody. You never have been. Not to me,” Brienne whispers.

Brienne is so close that Sansa can count the freckles on her nose, so close that she can name the myriad shades of blue in her eyes. She feels her eyelids begin to flutter shut.

“Cat,” Brienne whispers, and the spell is broken. Sansa pulls back.

“Wait, Brienne. Before we – before I say anything else, I must tell you something,” she says, biting her lip.

“What is it?” Brienne says, looking confused.

“Cat is not my name. It was my mother’s. I want – I want to tell you who I really am,” Sansa says, heart beginning to pound faster.

“Then do,” Brienne says, chuckling at her. “I can hardly claim offence considering I was dishonest as well.”

Sansa huffs a laugh at that. “Yes, but you are forgiven. A thousand times over. It is I who should apologise.”

“Do not apologise. Just – tell me your name,” Brienne says.

Sansa steadies her breathing, and looks at Brienne. The moonlight glints on her crown, but Sansa ignores it, looking into her eyes instead. “My name … My name is –”

But she never finishes the sentence. Because, somewhere far away, a clock chimes the quarter hour to midnight, and Sansa realises she must get home immediately, or face a beating. The scars on her back begin to throb, and her breath comes too quickly.

“I – oh gods, I have to go. I am sorry. Brienne, I am so sorry,” she says, springing up and gathering her skirts.

“What is it? Where are you going?” Brienne says, standing up after her, bewildered.

“Tonight has been the most wonderful night of my life,” Sansa calls over her shoulder, beginning to jog towards the exit. “Truly, Brienne, I – I wish I had time to explain. But I must leave, immediately!”

And as she exits the garden, she begins to sprint, or as near-to as she can in her slippered shoes.

Sansa runs as fast as she possibly can along the garden path, a thorn or two from the vines scraping at her shoulders. She can hear Brienne calling out for her to stop, but does not heed her cries, only increasing her haste towards the castle. She enters the palace once more and runs along the portrait gallery past a pair of guards too shocked to chase her, and before she knows it, she is in the ballroom once more. Faces turn again to stare at her entrance, and follow her across the room as she makes for the door, looking to the ground both to avoid tripping and in the hopes that the Lannisters will not see her.

Within seconds, she is dashing carelessly quickly down the stairs leading into the palace, relieved to see Margaery’s carriage awaiting her. Margaery is not there to greet her, but Sansa remembers her saying that she would leave in her family’s carriage if need be, so Sansa does not slow.

Just as she reaches the last flight, her left heel slips off, nearly causing her to tumble. She turns to pick it up, but looking up she can already see the palace guards shouting for her to stop at the top of the stairs. Instead, she pulls off her other shoe and holds it in her hand as she continues her flight down the stairs and into the carriage. As she stuffs her enormous gown inside along with the rest of her, the carriage driver turns around.

“I take it you’ll be wanting a quick exit then, my lady?”

“Drive!” Sansa cries, unable to explain further.

“Right you are, my lady,” Hugh says, and cracks the whip to set the horses going, racing at a dangerous speed in no time. Sansa hopes that Margaery trusts Hugh more than she does as the carriage tosses her from side to side.

She risks glancing behind them, poking her head out the little window, but as far as she can see the palace guards are scrambling to fall in order and wasting precious time that Sansa will be able to use to escape them. She only wishes she could let them know that she does not want to leave, that she will be back when she can – but that cannot be tonight, not yet.

Eventually, the carriage slows to a pace that does not make Sansa feel nauseous. Within minutes, the carriage pulls up at the door to the Baratheon manor, and Sansa makes a hasty exit from the tiny thing, grateful to be back on solid ground.

“Thank you, Hugh,” she whispers to the carriage driver.

He nods in response, and tips his hat. “You’re welcome, my lady. Anything for Lady Tyrell.”

“Good night,” Sansa replies, smiling, and flushed from her exercise.

“Good night, my lady,” Hugh responds, before setting the horses to a slow walk away from the manor, to make up for their efforts earlier.

Sansa watches them leave, a new lightness in her heart. She cannot return to the palace until she has spoken with Myrcella and knows that she has a way out, a way that will keep her from Lady Lannister’s clutches. But there will be a way, she knows that now. She will return to Brienne, and tell her the truth about who she really is. And Brienne will protect her from Joffrey and Lady Lannister. Sansa can trust that, she knows in her bones. Maybe, somehow, Brienne will even help her find her siblings, and keep them safe too.

Sansa glances one last time at the full moon, glowing in the sky, casting all on the ground into silver and shadows. It has never looked more beautiful.

She turns towards the doors, and opens them as quietly as she can, closing them softly behind her. The private smile she has been wearing, however, dissolves at the sight that greets her.

“Hello, Sansa,” Lady Lannister hisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mates. This chapter nearly killed me. But I also loved writing it. Go figure.
> 
> Happy holidays to everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: A beating, and threats of implied rape. Detailed warnings in notes.

Sansa’s first coherent thought upon waking is the realisation that she is terrible pain.

Her back does not so much ache as scream, a maelstrom of pain in her head that causes her to whimper involuntarily. She hears someone take a breath sharply and is suddenly wide awake, tensing up despite the pain, as she senses the person leaning over her.

“Sansa? Are you awake?” The voice belongs to Myrcella. Sansa does not relax.

“Yes,” she whispers, and squeezes her eyes shut, as hard as she can. The events of the previous night return to her.

Margaery’s appearance at the manor. The dress, the carriage ride. Brienne, staring at her in shock across a room full of nobles. The dance, and how she had fled from it.

And then Lady Lannister, waiting for her.

The next part is hazy, perhaps because her mind has tried to keep the worst of it from her memories. She remembers Lady Lannister’s contorted face screaming obscenities at her. She remembers blind panic, standing frozen by the door. Somehow, she must have ended up in the yard, because she can remember the cold press of dew against her cheek. That was when Lady Lannister had begun to use the lash on her.

She doesn’t know how long it lasted, only that it felt like forever. She doesn’t remember who it was that cried out “ _Cersei, stop, you will kill the girl!_ ” She thinks it might have been a man. But there were two people who carried her in, careful not to touch her back, and laid her down on her little pallet near the kitchen. Somebody began to wipe down her back, and she had cried, and finally, mercifully, fallen asleep.

But now she has awoken, and she cannot ignore the pain.

“I tried to – I tried to dress your wounds last night as best I could. But I have no experience with … I was not sure,” Myrcella whispers.

Sansa says nothing. She does not have the strength to reassure Myrcella right now.

“I cannot stay long. Mother – mother does not want me to talk to you. She does not know that I – that last night, I was the one who …” Myrcella stops, guilt closing her throat for her.

“Good,” Sansa whispers. She cannot muster up anything else.

Myrcella leans closer, cloth rustling. “There has been an announcement from the palace. Princess Brienne has said that she will marry the maiden to whom a particular slipper belongs. I know you came back missing your shoe last night, Sansa. But mother has it. She says – I think she means to pass me off as you. I do not … I need to write to Margaery, but …”

Sansa’s heart, bruised as it is, thrums once more with pain at Myrcella’s hesitation. She knows the girl will obey her mother. Lady Lannister is kind only to her children. Myrcella cannot be expected to reject a mother who still loves her so much.

“Just go,” Sansa whispers.

Myrcella does not move.

“Please,” Sansa says, her voice cracking.

Myrcella leaves, closing the door quietly behind her with a soft click. Sansa should be getting up. She ought to be doing all the chores she missed out on last night. She ought to be responsible for herself.

But for now, with her back so sore that she twitches and shakes, she begins to weep.

 

~

 

Two days pass. In that time, Sansa does not do her chores. No one comes to make her do them. Meals appear at her door, but Sansa suspects that Lady Lannister has banned anyone from speaking to her. She is not foolish enough to believe that Lady Lannister will keep her on now, but an injured servant is hard to sell, and Sansa suspects that as soon as she is healed she will be taken away to some worse-off place.

But her worst fears are not confirmed until Lady Lannister herself appears one night, deep in her cups and revelling in her power over Sansa’s fate. Sansa is still lying on her stomach, barely having eaten because it hurts to move.

“I imagine you wonder what’s going to happen to you, little dove,” her ladyship whispers in the darkness.

Sansa does not want to listen, does not want to hear this.

“There is a man. A man who knew your whore of a mother.”

Sansa cannot stifle the breath she takes at Lady Lannister’s vicious language.

“Oh, she was a whore, Sansa, I promise you that. Because this man knew her intimately. And he is willing to pay any price to look upon your mother again. You should feel grateful that have her look.”

Despite everything, despite the dull ache that has overtaken Sansa’s whole being, there is still enough will inside her to be afraid.

“His name is Petyr Baelish. They call him Littlefinger, at court. But you will only ever call him your lord and master, little dove, because that is the way of things for us women. He will arrive to collect you in five days. Think on that.”

With that, Lady Lannister rises and leaves, Sansa never having looked at her once. This time, she cannot cry, too stunned to summon tears. She is being sold.

 

~

 

It has been a week since the ball. Sansa can rise now, and attend to her own needs, though her chores still go neglected. She has no idea who has been doing them in her absence, but she thinks it may have been Tyrion’s men. For the first time in a week, Sansa leaves her room.

That soon turns out to be a mistake when she runs straight into Myrcella outside the kitchen doors.

Myrcella blanches, and Sansa stutters, trying to apologise, but Myrcella holds up her hands and shushes her, ushering her back into the kitchen without another word. When she has closed the door behind her, Myrcella turns to Sansa with a pinched look on her face.

“Sansa. I am glad I caught you. Mother says you are not to leave your room for the rest of today.”

“Why?” The demand to know surprises Sansa as much as it does Myrcella. Perhaps having lost everything, she is finally learning not to care.

“Because – because we are expecting guests. If she sees you outside, she will beat you again. She told me to tell you that.”

“What guests?” Sansa asks, ignoring the threat.

Myrcella bites her lip before answering. “The royal guard. The princess’ declaration – she will marry the owner of the slipper left behind at the ball. She has been told that – that the owner of the slipper lives here.”

Sansa’s whole body feels cold. “And your mother informed her, no doubt. You will claim it.” It is not a question.

Myrcella’s mouth opens and closes, but she does not speak. Sansa knows her assumption a week ago is correct. Myrcella is a good girl. But she is also afraid, terribly afraid, of the woman who raised her. She will not disobey.

“I wrote – to Margaery, but – she hasn’t written back, I do not know what to do.”

Sansa tries to swallow the bitter despair, but it will not be held back. “Be a good girl. Remember your courtesies. Obey your elders, Myrcella.”

“Sansa –”

“Please, Myrcella,” Sansa interrupts. “Go.”

 

~

 

Within two hours, horses arrive at the gates to the manor. Guests tumble in, their shoes clattering over the marble floors above Sansa’s head. She sits at the kitchen table, numb. When she hears the footsteps slow and settle somewhere far from the kitchen, she stands, not knowing what it is that she intends to do.

What can she do? The royal guard will not recognise a filthy cinder-wench like her, hunched with pain and wearing rags. Lady Lannister even took her shoes – her feet are bare, and stained with soot. There is no point in trying to make her case.

But perhaps there is a point in knowing she has been defeated. Perhaps she can stop this endless pain of hope and despair cycling inside her heart. If she listens in – if she sees, for certain, that Myrcella is taken to the palace, that her almost-sister accepts the royal proposal.

Yes. There is something to be said for knowing for sure. For settling the foolish hope in her heart, and learning to move on.

Sansa opens the kitchen door and creeps around the corner, footsteps silent without her shoes. She is likely leaving a trail of soot behind her, but she cannot bring herself to care. She makes her way towards the guest sitting room, in the west wing, with a slow but determined pace. The door is still open, and Sansa stops short of it outside the doorframe, listening to the voices within.

“You realise, of course, that Lady Myrcella will be required to try on the slipper. We trust the word of a lady of your standing, but the princess insists,” a voice says, one that Sansa does not recognise.

“Of course, my lord,” Lady Lannister’s voice replies, syrupy-sweet in the way she only produces in response to rich men.

“Mother, I am not sure …” Myrcella’s voice makes Sansa start.

“Hush now, my child. All will be well. It is your slipper, after all.”

Sansa’s heart beats faster. Silence falls within the room as, presumably, the slipper is produced. Surely it will not fit Myrcella. Myrcella is taller than Sansa, her mother has often complained of her long feet, deeming them unladylike.

“Mother, please, I –”

“Hush, Myrcella,” Lady Lannister snaps, a warning note in her voice.

For a moment more there is silence.

“No.”

Sansa stops breathing, and inches closer to the door. She can see in, now. Myrcella sits on an embroidered chair, hands clenched on the sides, her foot frozen in the air where a royal guard kneels with Sansa’s slipper, seconds from placing it on her foot. Lady Lannister stands, behind her daughter, with her hands like claws on the back of the chair.

“No?” Lady Lannister hisses. Even the guards are frozen.

Myrcella lowers her foot, and twists in the chair to face her mother. She is trembling.

“No. This is wrong, mother. This is a lie. That slipper will not fit me because it does not belong to me,” Myrcella says, her voice wavering with fear.

Lady Lannister laughs nervously. “Whatever are you talking about, my dear?”

Myrcella stands, stepping around the royal guard still frozen on the floor. “It is the truth! This is not my shoe, gentlemen. I am sorry. My mother – my mother wanted me to lie. But I cannot. Not anymore. I cannot be cruel like you, mother,” Myrcella says, the last part whispered as if her throat can barely squeeze out the words.

“You – you little –” Lady Lannister’s fury gives way to violence as she stumbles forward, reaching for Myrcella’s neck. The guards, finally, leap into action – restraining Lady Lannister in seconds. Myrcella’s face betrays her shock at her mother’s violence as she stumbles back. Lady Lannister has never been violent towards her own children before. Where the guards hold her, her ladyship still struggles, shouting through angry tears that have begun to pour down her face.

“After all I did for you! My own daughter! I arranged _all of this_ so that you might be happy!” Lady Lannister looks wild, her face contorted with rage and betrayal. Myrcella takes several more steps back, but her ladyship is not done.

“I killed for you, for you and Tommen! So did Joffrey, for the two of you, because I ordered it! I killed the stupid oaf who pretended to be your father, and I killed those Stark bastards for trying to marry my son to a little slut! For _you_!”

Sansa’s blood runs cold. She falls heavily against the wall.

“I did it for you! For my own children! How can you do this to me? To your _own mother_?”

Lady Lannister continues to scream and shout, but Sansa cannot hear her. Sansa feels faint with the realisation that her parents’ loss has someone to blame for it after all. The same person who sold Sansa’s siblings and left her alone in the world, the same person who beat her and was immeasurably cruel to her for two years.  Cersei Lannister is responsible for every last one of Sansa’s miseries.

And Sansa is letting her happiness slip away because she is too afraid to stand up to the tyrant.

She sucks in a deep breath. In, and then out. Straightens up from where she has sunk against the wall. Smooths down her skirts as best she can. And then she turns around and walks through the open door of the sitting room.

“ _You_.”

The entire room turns to look at her, including Myrcella, who looks both relieved and shocked to see her standing there. But Sansa has eyes only for Cersei.

“You killed my parents,” she whispers. “And your own husband. You are a murderess. You sent my siblings away from me, and wore me down, day by day, until all I knew was how to obey you. But no more. I will not let you take away my happiness, never again,” Sansa says, furious tears filling her eyes.

For Cersei’s part, she has been stunned, for once, into silence. She gapes, the reality of the situation seeming to hit her all at once – attacking Myrcella, confessing to murder in front of several royal guards, two of whom are holding her where she stands.

Sansa turns to the gathered guards, the five or six not attending to Cersei scattered about the room looking stunned, from what little can be see of their faces between their high collars and low caps.

“Gentlemen. You have been told that the maiden who left her slipper at the ball lives in this house. What you were told is true, it is only that the maiden you seek is not Lady Myrcella. But she did help me. It is thanks to her that I – that I was able to attend the royal ball last week. That,” Sansa says, gesturing to the shoe still in the hands of a royal guard, “Is my slipper. You will see that it fits.”

For a moment, a stunned silence descends over the room, broken only by Cersei’s heavy breathing, a poor attempt to stifle angry sobs. Then a voice arises from the back of the room.

“Cat?”

She knows that voice.

A figure emerges from within the sea of identical royal guards – an unusually tall figure, with blonde hair. She sweeps off her cap, and Princess Brienne’s disguise is revealed. Myrcella and Sansa, apparently the only members of the household to remember their courtesies, both gasp and curtsy low. But Brienne shakes her head.

“No, please – I came in disguise so this would not happen. Well, I disguised myself for many reasons, but – I think we can all assume that today did not go according to anyone’s plans.”

“Your royal highness, I – I am so sorry, I had no idea of my mother’s duplicitousness,” Myrcella says, unable to hold back her apologies. “I was not sure – I was awaiting word from Margaery Tyrell. It was us – we conspired to bring her to the ball.”

“I know,” Brienne says, and the bottom drops out of Sansa’s stomach.

“You knew?” Sansa cries out, speaking for the first time since Brienne revealed herself.

Brienne’s eyes widen. “Oh, not at first. I did not know until – erm, until I had called for a nation-wide search for you,” she says, with a blush. “It was Margaery. She contacted me the day after the ball to tell me the truth about where you came from. She did not reveal all, she said that was your place to tell. But she told me where I could find you, and that she and Myrcella had had to conspired to bring you to the royal ball when they realised – when they made the connection between the maiden in the forest I spoke of, erm, often, and … you.”

“Oh,” Sansa says, overwhelmed. Brienne did not come here because Cersei told her of Myrcella. Brienne came her because she knew _Sansa_ would be here.

“I meant – I meant to – May we speak privately?” Brienne blurts out.

Before Sansa has a chance to answer, Myrcella interrupts.  “The east sitting room! You can go there. She –” Myrcella gestures to Sansa – “Knows the way.”

“Myrcella, stop it!” Cersei’s angry voice interrupts.

“Silence her. I do not wish to hear another word from Lady Lannister until we have gotten to the bottom of this,” Brienne snaps, and it is the first time Sansa has seen her angry.

“As you say, your royal highness,” says a guard with a rasping voice.

Brienne turns to Sansa, and Sansa jumps to attention, quickly turning and leading Brienne from the room. Two guards go to follow, but are stopped by a wave of Brienne’s hand. Sansa feels her stomach turn over with nerves.

The walk to the east sitting room seems to take forever. Sansa does not look back at Brienne, too afraid of what she will find on her face. There is much to say, and Sansa does not know where to begin, too shaken by Cersei’s revelation. Her parents were murdered, by the very woman who kept her prisoner the past two years. She does not know how to comprehend that.

When they reach the east sitting room, Sansa opens the doors and waits for Brienne to pass through before following, though Brienne pauses in the entryway. Inside, Sansa stands before Brienne and prepares to speak, but Brienne interrupts her.

“I am sorry. I had not planned for things to go this way,” she says, sounding both humbled and pained.

“Nor did I,” Sansa says, with something of a sad chuckle. “Cersei has a habit of throwing my life into a shambles. But I do not wish to speak of her. I never wish to hear her name again.”

“Of course. But I must ask – before we go any further. Is it true, what she said? That she killed your parents?”

A fresh wave of pain rushes through Sansa at hearing Brienne say the words. “Yes. I believe so. They, and Myrcella’s father, took ill two years ago when we came to stay to celebrate my – my engagement to Joffrey. No one else in the house was affected. I think … I think she must have been telling the truth, and poisoned them, because she believed my father a poor man.”

“I am sorry,” Brienne murmurs, reaching out to take Sansa’s hand. Sansa allows herself the comfort.

“As I said. I do not wish to speak of her at present. Not until I am far away from her,” Sansa says, before pausing to consider the implication in her statement.

“Then – then you …” Brienne cannot seem to find the words.

Sansa takes a shuddering breath, putting away the tears that must come later, and looks into Brienne’s eyes. “Your highn – Brienne. I never got the chance to tell you my name.”

“Tell me,” Brienne says, voice hushed.

Sansa takes a moment to search Brienne’s eyes. They are clear of lies, and cruelty. They are the eyes of a true knight, and one who loves her. They are the eyes of someone Sansa loves.

She breathes in.

“My name is Sansa, of house Stark. My parents were Lady Catelyn of the house Tully, and Lord Eddard of house Stark, the Warden of the North. And I … I believe, Brienne, that I have come to love you with all my heart. And if you will still have me, even under the circumstances, even as wretched as I am …” Sansa can no longer speak, her throat full.

Brienne does not answer, but tips Sansa’s chin up, as she did the night of the ball. This time there is no one to interrupt as Brienne kisses her, light as air, and gentler than any touch Sansa has felt in years. And when Brienne goes to pull back, to give Sansa the space she must believe that Sansa needs, Sansa pulls her in once more, finally willing to take the happiness within her grasp, over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed content warnings: Cersei beats Sansa within an inch of her life. This is described in terms of a hazy memory, but it takes several days for Sansa to heal enough from her wounds to move. Cersei also tells Sansa that she is planning to sell Sansa to Littlefinger as his bride/concubine due to her resemblance to her mother. This does not come to fruition and Littlefinger is never present.
> 
> Well that's just about it!! The last chapter will be an epilogue of sorts to tie up loose ends. I had to create a lot of off-screen plot threads to avoid killing off all of Sansa's family, because damnit, she's been through enough. They will all be sorted out in the epilogue. And yes, I will address poor Myrcella and Tommen's situation! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! The end is here!! To be clear: this is an epilogue. It will tie up a lot of loose ends, some of which you may be bored by. :P You were warned!

Cersei is arrested, of course. Along with Joffrey, her accomplice. Sixteen at the time of his crime, and having helped his mother hide it for two years hence, it is more than enough to condemn him. He is held with her in the palace cells while Princess Brienne decides what to do with them.

Sansa tells Brienne that she never wants to see them again, and cares no more to contribute than that. But then, two days after Sansa is taken to the palace, Tyrion Lannister requests an audience with the princess and her consort-to-be, and things change.

“Sans– my lady,” he says, by way of greeting. Sansa may be wearing a fine dress, be clean and comfortable upon her fiancé’s arm, but Tyrion still knows her as the cinder-wench she was, and it does not hurt to know that.

“My lord Tyrion,” she says, nodding politely. They are in a comparatively small room for the grand palace, privacy having been one of Tyrion’s requests. He sits across from Sansa and Brienne, a grave look upon his face.

“I have requested an audience regarding what is to be done about my niece and nephew. They have two years to wait until they may inherit, and I am one of their few living relatives. I know that … my lady Sansa, I know that you may not wish to entrust their welfare to me, considering that … I could not stop my sister from treating you as she did, but …” He trails off.

Sansa’s eyes widen. She had not thought of him thus. “I never blamed for you that, my lord. Cersei’s cruelty was not limited to me. I know that she never – never cared for you. And you … It was a man, who stopped her beating me to death that night. I know it was you, or one of your men, at least.”

“But I did not stop her from beating you at all,” Tyrion argues. Brienne’s hand tightens on Sansa’s arm, but Sansa merely presses back to reassure her. Brienne’s protective instinct still warms her heart, all the same.

“How could you have? I was her property, in all but name. I never asked for your help, never expected you to grant it, or anybody else. It matters not, though, in regards to Tommen and Myrcella – they love you, my lord. Anyone can see that. Their custody is yours as long as you want it.”

Tyrion glances at Brienne, who nods a confirmation. “Whatever Sansa wishes for your family is my wish also,” she says, managing to sound regal and besotted all at once. Sansa fights back a tiny smile.

“My family. That is … there is another matter I wished to discuss. One that cannot leave this room,” Tyrion says.

Sansa glances towards Brienne just as Brienne does the same, but Brienne shrugs and turns back to Tyrion to answer. “If it is a matter for the security of the kingdom, I can make no guarantee …”

Tyrion barks out a laugh. “Nothing so serious, or consequential, I believe.”

“Then proceed,” Brienne says.

“It pertains to Myrcella and Tommen’s parentage. And Joffrey’s, too, I suppose. You recall my brother Jaime?”

“Yes, of course. He visited twice during – during my stay at the manor,” Sansa says, unsure how to speak of her captivity. “He was … a perfect knight. At the last I heard he was fighting in the war, overseas.”

“He was. We have not heard word from him in many months. I have begun to believe that … he may be dead.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Sansa says truthfully. Though Jaime never made a particularly strong impression on her, she can recall his closeness with Tyrion from their single overlapping visit in her first year well.

“As am I. Jaime and I were close. But … not so close as Jaime and Cersei were.”

Sansa furrows her brow, trying to remember. Cersei and Jaime _had_ seemed close during his visits to the manor, but … She cannot see where Tyrion might be leading.

“They are twins, you know. Together since the day they were born. They could never be separated, even as children. I thought little enough of it, for many years. But of late … I have begun to suspect that their union may have had a … more dependent shade than I realised.”

“I do not understand,” Brienne says from beside Sansa. But a dawning horror is taking hold of her, and Sansa suspects that she _does_ understand.

Tyrion sighs, and looks up before continuing to speak. “I believe that my brother and sister committed incest, your royal highness.”

Brienne gapes at the statement, but Sansa remains silent, feeling ill.

“Furthermore … I believe that Cersei’s children do not carry Baratheon blood. Given their looks, and Joffrey’s … temperament, I think it reasonable to assumed that they are all Jaime’s.”

_I killed the stupid oaf who pretended to be your father_. Cersei’s words ring in Sansa’s mind.

“Surely not,” Brienne says, sounding appalled.

“He is telling the truth,” Sansa whispers, turning to Brienne in horror. “Remember her words. She called Robert the man who ‘pretended’ to be their father.”

Brienne takes a moment to recall, but comprehension soon dawns in her features. “I remember,” she says solemnly. Sansa takes her hand and squeezes it, needing comfort.

“Then you see why this can never get out. If it were only Joffrey … But Tommen and Myrcella, they do not deserve the disgrace of their parentage. Things will be bad enough for them in the coming months, their mother and brother murderers.”

“Yes. Of course, you are right,” Sansa says, and Brienne makes a noise of agreement.

“If it is at all possible … And, for what it is worth, I can hardly believe I am coming to her defence, but … I think Cersei should live. Joffrey too, if he must. Whatever Cersei is, she loves her children more fiercely than any mother I have ever known.”

“I will consider it, Lord Tyrion,” Brienne says, sounding sad. “But I can guarantee nothing where the courts are to be considered.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says, ducking his head with a jerk. In the next moment, he turns to Sansa. “I wanted to be truthful with you, my lady. I have wronged you by allowing your abuse to continue. I hoped that my honesty would prove my worth as a guardian to Tommen and Myrcella,” Tyrion says. He sounds ashamed.

Sansa knows he has not always lived a pure life, has lived the way of a hedonist. She knows the words that Cersei spat at him were sometimes true.

But looking upon him now, seeing the desperation with which he clearly wants to protect Tommen and Myrcella from their family’s shame, she believes in him. She turns to Brienne.

“I think that he is right, my love,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” Brienne says, looking pensive. She turns to Tyrion. “You shall be the guardian of Tommen and Myrcella until they come of age. Have no fear, Lord Tyrion. It will be so.”

“Thank you, your royal highness,” Tyrion replies, before hopping down off the seat. He bows, a little clumsily. “If I make take my leave to speak with my niece and nephew?”

“Of course,” Brienne says, inclining her head.

Once Tyrion has left, Brienne turns to Sansa with something strange in her eyes.

“What?” Sansa says, feeling nervous. She hopes she did not lead the conversation overmuch – her fiancé is a princess, after all.

“You called me your love,” Brienne says simply.

Reviewing the conversation in her head, Sansa discovers that she has indeed, and blushes a little.

“I apologise for being so forward,” she mumbles, feeling a mite foolish.

“Sansa! We are engaged to be married. You cannot be too forward with me,” Brienne says, a smile on her face. She leans her forehead against Sansa’s, stroking her cheek with a calloused hand.

“I hope not,” Sansa whispers, before leaning up to steal a kiss.

 

~

 

The king’s health continues to fail, and Brienne becomes brooding and anxious in the coming months. Their wedding will not be held until the king passes, in all likelihood, considering the flurry of activity and confusion that are preceding it. Sansa tries to be as supportive as she can, but she has matters of her own to worry about.

Like her siblings. With Margaery and Myrcella’s help, she has written to their last known addresses. Myrcella tells her that she suspects her mother had a hand in never letting Sansa’s letters get very far, and so perhaps it is worth trying now.

The letters themselves were hard to write. Sansa doubts even now whether she should have told of all that has happened to her, from her broken off engagement with Joffrey, to Cersei’s cruelty, to her impending marriage to the princess. She worries, incessantly, that Arya – if indeed she receives the letter – will hate her for getting all that she desires. As for Bran and Rickon, it has been so long since she saw their faces she does not know how they will react, if she can contact them. And Robb and Jon … she can only hope that they still live.

Each letter contains an invitation to the palace, the promise of a ready room for any one of them that shows up. Yet Sansa is still shocked when she enters her room one day to find Arya waiting for her.

At first, she does not recognise the strange young woman sitting leisurely in her chair. She is small, and has cropped dark hair, and skin tanned from the sun. But her eyes are the same. Grey-blue and steely – Stark eyes.

“Arya?” Sansa whispers, in shock.

The stranger smiles tentatively. “Hello, big sister.”

Words fail her, and so she does the only thing she can. She rushes forward, and greedily pulls Arya into her arms with a cry.

She weeps for many minutes, as does Arya. Neither of them can seem to speak, beginning sentences and questions that dissolve into hysterical laughter or more tears. Eventually, Sansa pulls back, gazing at the sister she has long thought lost.

“How – how did you get into my room?” she asks, unable to think of anything else.

Arya gives a watery grin. “I learnt such arts in Braavos, under a great teacher. Syrio Forel.”

“Braavos? But Cersei sent you to the Reeds. Is that where Bran and Rickon have been, all this time?”

“No, only me. I … I ran away before we ever reached the Reeds. There was an attack, I thought Rickon and Bran dead.”

Sansa brings a hand to her mouth in shock, feeling sick. Arya hurries to reassure her.

“They live! Do not fear. But I thought, for many months, that they had died. I ran to Braavos and found work as a swordmaster’s apprentice. It was only then that I thought to write to the Reeds and inform them of how we were waylaid … Well, I was shocked when they wrote back to tell me Bran and Rickon were with them! They survived the attack, somehow, and made their way to the Reed household. They have been there ever since.”

“But if they are with the Reeds – how did you come to be here first? Braavos is so far away,” Sansa asks, confused.

Arya’s smile fades. “Ah. That is the hard part of it. They survived the attack, but … only just. Bran cannot walk, and likely never will again,” she says, her voice trembling.

Sansa cannot help it, tears spill out at Arya’s words. But Bran and Rickon live, and Arya is before her. That is more than she ever thought possible while living with Cersei. She gives in to the urge to hug Arya again, and thanks the gods for all that has been returned to her.

 

~

 

Arya and Brienne get along almost too well for Sansa’s taste. Although Arya’s brash manners had perhaps been a little intimidating for the shy Brienne upon their first meeting, once they each discover the other’s love of fencing, they become fast friends. Sansa can only watch on, bemused, as the two of them argue over the better way to fight – Braavosi water-dancing or Westerosi brutality.

More letters are sent north, and a carriage, to bring Bran and Rickon down if they choose. Bran says that he will come for Sansa and Brienne’s wedding, but does not know if he will stay. He has begun to make a life for himself up north, and Sansa’s heart aches with something unnameable to know that he will remain near to their home – perhaps even bring it back to its former glory, one day. Still Rickon will stay with Sansa and Brienne, young as he is – an heir, perhaps, though such considerations are still far off.

More surprises are yet to come, however, as Sansa’s letters to Robb and Jon receive, incredibly – a reply.

_Dearest little sister,_

_Words cannot express how much your letter meant to us both. Jon and I were informed by Lady Lannister two years ago that you, our siblings, and our parents, had all perished in a great fire at Winterfell. That was the last we ever heard of home, and since then we have only had each other to rely on, until now. So much has happened since we lost contact. I am a captain, now, and these brutal wars seem never to end. I have heard rumours that Princess Brienne is sympathetic to the Dragon Queen, and willing to negotiate peace – if what you say is true, and you are to be married, I pray you will help her make peace._

_There is much more to tell, so much that I can scarcely believe it – but I will allow Jon to explain._

_Hello, cousin._

_Yes,_ cousin _. We have made a great many discoveries in this country. The Dragon Queen’s brother, Rhaegar – he was my father, and Lyanna, your aunt, my mother. Their marriage produced me, before my mother’s untimely death, and Rhaegar’s flight to Essos. Though he is long since dead, his sister knew of my birth and sought me out. I was found. Few know of it, yet – but soon will, when the king is dead. The news of your marriage to princess Brienne is fortuitous. It should ease the path to peace – the Dragon Queen knows we were raised siblings._

_I miss you, little sister. Knowing you are alive is the greatest gift._

_We hope to be home soon, if peace is indeed declared. Jon has become something of a diplomat, now, but still we remain at war as long as the king lives. I never thought to write it, Sansa, but – bring us home._

_Lord Robb Stark_

_Jon Snow._

The letter brings more tears of joy, tears Sansa shares with Arya. She keeps the letter to herself, the news of Jon’s origins being a twist of fate she had not seen coming. But still, she must share it, as she does everything, with Brienne.

Brienne’s face is grave as she reads over the letter in her solar one night, Sansa pacing anxiously before her. When she is finished, she looks up, brow furrowed.

“They speak of my father’s death with eagerness,” she says sadly. Sansa rushes forward to take her hands.

“Please do not be angry with them. They want an end to the war. It has been four years of senseless fighting for them …” Sansa bites her lip, hesitant to continue defending her brothers (and Jon is her brother still), though privately, she agrees with them.

“I know,” Brienne says, looking away from Sansa’s eyes. “I know that my father has been … stubborn, in regards to this war. I know it cannot continue.”

“But?”

“But … he is my father, Sansa. I am terrified to lose him,” Brienne whispers, voice shaking with restrained tears.

“Oh, Brienne,” Sansa says, wrapping her arms around her. But Brienne rests her head against Sansa’s shoulder for only a few precious moments before sitting up and clearing her throat.

“Regarding your cousin, Jon …” Brienne begins, seeming uncertain of how to continue.

“Brother,” Sansa says. “He will always be a brother to me.”

“Regarding your brother, then,” Brienne says, with a tiny smile for Sansa alone. “That is – extremely unexpected news. But good, too … If what he says about the Dragon Queen’s fondness for him is true.”

“I am sure it is. Everyone knows of Lyanna and Rhaegar’s tragic marriage. She died many years ago, in childbirth. The child was Jon. He is never dishonest,” Sansa says.

“Perhaps he has much to teach us both, then,” Brienne says in a grave tone. For a moment, Sansa’s heart stutters – but then she catches the teasing smile in Brienne’s eyes.

“You –!” Sansa pokes Brienne, but it only makes her laugh, and then the two of them are struggling lightly on the tiny couch before Sansa kisses Brienne, and there is no more to be said.

 

~

 

Before the year is out, the king passes. Many do not mourn, instead celebrating, knowing of the princess’s inclination towards peace. But even though the passing of the title of queen to her fiancé means that her brothers are coming home, Sansa feels no joy in Brienne’s great sorrow.

All due honours are afforded to the king at the funeral. A great procession through town, Brienne stoic and silent, walking beside Sansa the whole way. Afterwards, she allows herself to cry, head on Sansa’s lap and Sansa’s hand in her hair. They do not need to speak overmuch of loss. They both understand it too well, by now.

 

~

 

Negotiations are held, and arguments mediated. Letters fly back and forth, Jon’s input considered incredibly valuable when his heritage is made public, and Sansa’s own thoughts privately considered by Brienne. The Dragon Queen is stubborn, and vengeful – but too, she is known as a mother to all for a reason, and so it is that finally, after many months, peace is declared between the two nations.

Many grand celebrations are held, but there is one, more than any other, that Sansa holds her breath for. Because after so long waiting – for family, for peace, for duty – she and Brienne are to be married.

It is an enormous celebration, of course. Beyond Sansa’s wildest dreams, and there had been plenty of those as a child. Thousands of candles are lit in the sept, and hundreds of flowers are ordered in increasingly elaborate arrangements.

Her gown is made from layers of Myrish lace, so large that the gown she wore on the night of the fateful ball seems like a simple shift by comparison. It both weighs her down and buoys her up, the weight of the skirts offset peculiarly by the tightness of her corset, pushing her shoulders up.

Sansa loves it.

Despite everything she has been through, there is still a girlish part of her that takes inordinate pleasure in beautiful gowns and splendour of the celebratory variety. Even Brienne, who Sansa knows by now feels awkward during any kind of public event, is cheered by Sansa’s enthusiasm. It is like discovering some long-lost part of her, a part that makes Arya groan and roll her eyes and Brienne smile softly when she thinks Sansa is not looking.

The day arrives, and the ceremony passes quickly. Sansa cannot think of anything but the gentle light in Brienne’s eyes throughout: the wonder at feeling so safe – so sure of love – permeating her whole body. She knows her vows by rote, but means them more and more the longer she looks at Brienne.

While they are leaving the sept, familiar faces pass by. Myrcella, smiling with something like pride, despite her youth. Tyrion and Tommen, nodding respectfully to their queen and to Sansa, once a servant to them. Margaery, looking particularly smug and especially happy for them, standing by her grandmother who openly rolls her eyes at the grandness of it all. Arya, smiling, having refused to wear a dress but having adopted Brienne’s mixture of coat and over-dress. Jon, and Robb, home at last and proud to see their sister married to the one she loves. Bran and Rickon, the former in a chair created from some design obtained by Tyrion, and the latter looking slightly wild even in his best formal dress.

But no matter how many familiar faces they pass, Sansa cannot keep her eyes from wandering back to one. In the carriage awaiting them, Sansa finally has a chance to lean forward, and kiss Brienne the way she has been wanting to all day. When she pulls back, Brienne leans her forehead against Sansa’s for a moment.

“What was that for?” Brienne asks, holding fast to Sansa’s hand.

“For everything. For the rest of our lives,” Sansa whispers back, feeling sure, ready to face a new day tomorrow – and the day after, forever, as long as Brienne is at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT IT'S DONE. This is the longest fic I've ever written!! Damn!! Kudos and comments are appreciated as always, but now I need to go SLEEP.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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